(Melancholia, Evward Munch,  1894)

Sanctity of Confinement

A listening ear, a shoulder to cry on

The wall against the danger, the protection of what you fear

Understanding what you think, knowing what you feel

Secrets I hold; burdens I carry

My judgments suspended in the in-between

(Between the dogma of man and the compassion of God)

Steady on water, keeping rhythm with the waves

Controlled and trained, faltering is no construct

Stoicism is my virtue, obedience is my duty

But what happens when there are fissures in the granite?

Depths exposed

The silence thundering – screaming in my head

(No one dares to look; no one hears my panicked heart)

It’s the imprisonment of my internal self

Survival is more than fear, it is predestined

What doesn’t kill me, I will mend

And I am still here, solid underneath your feet

The Young Shepherdess, William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1885

Truth 

Your darkened eyes of which I look

Where I see my reflection

Only emptiness stares back

Confirming your rejection

Embrace, Egon Schiele, 1917

Drifting Off To Sleep

Intertwined

My leg over your hip,

My chest pressed against your back

My arms surrounding you

Where my body finds its place

The energy drawing us together as if one

Belonging

To the unseen; the intangible

Not allowed or condoned

But is granted, when my eyes close,

and my mind is lifted from its burdens

I find you, and lay myself besides your entombment

Hearing

The rise and fall of your breath

My hand extends towards you, the heat of your body beneath the lingering of my touch

Aching in wanting; a heart’s desire in rapture

Indulging in the moments of your precious existence

Allowed me in my sleep

(Unrequited Love – A Scene From Much Ado About Nothing, William Oliver)

Lonely For You

It’s you my thoughts stay

Linger in the what if

If…

Is there such a dream to delve?

How I wish I was forgetful, like you

Of all that has been; all that keeps us eternally bound

To watch you from afar

Your life so meticulously laid out

Full of others who are not me

But there are moments

Moments when our paths meet

You on one side, me on the other

Dare you look over?

A glance, a smile, a hello

I see it…the struggle to understand what it means

You and me – somewhere, some time that you cannot recall

A knowing that is as real as the sunlight that warms

You cannot touch it, but it penetrates you all the same

But it is fleeting, and you move on, as do I

To my path on one side, you on the other

Your destiny without me, my destiny knowing

How lonely I am without you

Il Bacio, Francesco Hayez, 1859

The Kiss

It wasn’t suppose to be

In broad daylight

Where everyone could see

But no one was looking

As your your lips met mine

Your hands held me close

Our truth set free

And I will forever know that you love me

(Poem For The Soul, Louis Janmot, 1854)

A Soul’s Journey

Regrets

Ones to come

Many left behind

Meaningless in theory

Heavy in reality

The old woman barely remembers

The young girl too free to care

Only the wise carries the burden

Harken fool!

Listen to the hushed voices

They are not condemning

Nor is your purpose wasted

Release your judgment

Or is it fear?

Remember who you are; who you will be

Live in the moment – like a child

Forget all that scatters your mind – like the old

In between is the journey, lessons abound

Enrich what needs to be toiled

Bear witness to joy

For condemnation is your imagination

And your soul is listening

(Young Woman On The Shore, Edvard Munch, 1896)

Whispers of a Soul

Sacred prayers

Longings of the heart screeching across the cosmos

Hidden beyond the darkness

Lost in realms of conscious reality

No one is listening; no one can hear

Only the shadows know the truth

Does his soul hear the calls of my sorrow?

Why must one bear the burden of knowing

While others live life blissfully ignorant?

There is no God of mercy, of love

For He would not want one to suffer such torment

Or leave one to such inevitable longing

Is destiny so destined?

Or are there interceptions–a chance of one’s fate

Where whispers are heard

(The Lovers, Charles Hawthorne, circa 1900’s)

A Poet’s Remorse

In between

The words

I write

My messages

Of love

And desire

Ever wanting

Always needing

Loneliness mine

A truth

Not known

A memory

Now lost

Two lovers

Forever searching