Not To Keep Returning The Subject To Myself

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Not to keep returning the subject to myself
But there are certain truths I must understand
I’m no one special, a mere footnote
A history to be written, though not as planned

Dreams & hopes that never came to be
A rakish poet nor grizzled old typesetter
Through the years & false daily realities
It is inexplicable the mundane became better

So I find myself with a specific freedom
To be able to move without any sort of cosmic retort
For I have faith in love, fate & ultimate grace
Allowed to live without any innate need to stop short

Dimples; The Marks Of The Fairies

 

 

Dimples; the marks of the fairies
Their love touched upon the very faces
Chosen to endure above the others
Dimmed, but remaining vague traces
Magic’s residue upon your life
Nature knowing what is true
Selected to be special
Out of all the woods, they settled upon you

Ye Judgement

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Ye judgement
Comes at such a wearying price
I cannot compete with your mind
You imagine a crumbling paradise
I need to be out among my own
With those special little creatures
Characters thriving in my thoughts
Magic & love are seducing features

It’s A Special Moment

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It’s a special moment
When I can hold you near
Taking your hands in mine
Comforting you from fear
I can only give you me
I hope that’ll be your desire
My soul listening to yours
Dancing until love transpires

Ernest Hemingway

 

“The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.”

Ernest Hemingway, Men Without Women