Three

She said

I do not want to
live this life,
yet your life
is your own,
and there is no recourse
or action that
is not yours,
then I do not
want to
live this life,
there is no way,
but your way,
and so,
live the life,
you want to live,
and not the life
you know,
what that is
is only yours to say.

Tenth of ten and before lately done

There is very little about men that he can say for himself, much less that he can
boast, speaking and boasting is just what speaks less for him. I did not the
good done by me, I aided none when not asked an given too, there was naught
I gave when given spent and forgotten past lent for nothing gained or denial of repayment
whether of heaven lent.

How much more then spoken is that unsaid, unsung, unremembered only for a trail
of unkown sadness that never was lived.

And if sometimes blessed by what was not spoken, not boasted, not done, unaided,
hardly given, all passed for nothing. Then all unexpected, all at once given back,
and spoken, boasted, lauded, shouted what was done in secret openly and with pride,
not forgetting the detail of the, what never was.

Then this tenth of ten before and lately done. Those praises did come too late for grace.

When the pot is boiled.
And the buttermilk is stirred,
then the drink,
and the food can
be eaten,
made,
more than the body,
yet not less than
the passtime,
we do not quit as well
we will,
so,
we then let,
pass to moments,
never forgetting that spare
place the enjoyer sits,
in all,
all in all,
so that we may have,
joy,
and life in abundance of
it,
and when the drink
and the food is
eaten,
say,
joy to it,
the body too,
for in it the
enjoyer sits,
in delight of life,
even while,
surrounded by the misery,
longing free.

Then

When that bright day, spotted with color and the only shades are colors of dark
against the shining. Just bringing contrasts of what we chose best, shades of good,
better, best, together with all happy and joyous making things.

When this day, may I not hold back in fear at such pristine beautiful bounteous day, only
to reach for the hand and speak word that now we fly, this perfect day endless to outrun,
outstretch and unremembered all dark things in an embrace of longings fulfilled.

When failing that, to hold the embrace in the warmth of who is there and even if,
the stars no longer sing and that sunshine day not be yet, then only breaking heart
and fools braying soul of anguish, and serenade the moon that is sway full and know
that now is and the next day, be like the dawn, beautiful times two and then and again until delight
inexpressible inexpressibly made, in you and me and that shining day glorious.

I am a patient man, seeing this day, little by little promised in every now, in a smile,
and embrace, a kiss or lightly fingered touch, that is this present shady and yet still
worthy moments. Then, and now. Bright to bright, if moments like these, not lost
in time.