Wednesday, June 17, 2009


Here is a man, accomplished, to some degree, and silent for sake of the law.
Bent upon his points, his reasoning's, his immaturity,
he drinks.
Coerces the woman who loves him
But cannot admit he indeed loves her.
The words he upholds and the actions he desires
lie upon paths of vintage dreams and imagination,
the bright city lights and the dull living room fireplaces.
Where is the wine, my dear? Where?
Where are you, upon some street corner, waiting,
or eagerly awaiting the messenger?
In forfeiture, I know. Dreams
are not what they once were, or were to be.
Six years changes so very much, and why shouldn't it?
The law arrived at my doorstep, I never told you,
I never wanted to hear you cry...
My efforts are not for sake of love, but preservation,
my life is but to escape living, and to embrace a love
I thought I was missing all along.
My passion is for the eloquence of perservation.

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