If She Would Write with Me

I.
Freedom is a fragile thing
that often comes and goes
with every broken promise of
the truths that no one knows.

A.
She says that she can hardly wait
and it will be so thrilling;
oh, my God, can she deliver,
and she'll be so willing.

B.
That's what she says,
but then the moment
and the pen raised
poised like a seahorse
on the tip
of Neptune's finger,

and then,
with a flick
of her wrist,
she signs off,
and the exercise
is over.

C.
This is what it's like
to say
that she will write
the depth
of her emotions
in a single solid line,

and yet when it comes time
to lay down ink,

her knees buckle
and the dry lipped nip
crushes down
and splits the parchment

since despair
has borrowed her again.

D.
She does not have
a drop
of crimson agony
developed
and having not taken the time
to draw her sense
of reciprocity,
she cannot create
the needed context
in her mind
to justify the speaking
of the verses
that might have told
the glories
of her heart.

E.
Had she stirred
the basic pot
and watered in
that ragged edge,
and crushed the ink
into the stone,
she might have felt
the needed love
to flow a scent
of blackened blood
through which dissolves
the depths
of spirit's union.

F.
And then too
I might have said
the needed lines
that tell her all along
that she was in my heart.

II.
So, freedom is a fragile thing
that often comes and goes
with every broken promise of
the truths that no one knows.

runningturtle87