Poem #51

CONFESSIONAL OF A MINOR ASTROPHEL…

So, he went to a winery without you,
Venus, Spring, and beauty.
He drains the bottles and wine glasses empty
haunted by your memory,
bell of the party.
It’s his fault: he is too blameworthy,
he was too weak to handle any
similarity to the company
you had shared.
This is the stuff of shit for which
the world never cared.
Define lonely, when your mind, heart, and body
are breaking each trip back to his mom and dad’s home.
Why can’t he be the man you dreamed of come
to show you what you needed fondly?
I forget what you needed oddly,
was it one to connect to emotionally?
Severed emotionally, it is now all he dreams of
This one word each human dreams of,
this one word called love.
How do you place these things that sonnets set above
and below cast away when they are a dear trove
of a restless troubadour sick with love?
So, another poem for the Bell of the Ball?
It is in these delirious times as Dante he, too, would fall.
I forget when I am pierced through the breast how to remain tall.

June 6, 2015

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