Unshelled

Why is it that turmoil always feeds the refrain

that'll stab the vein of creative enterprise?

Why can't one write about love - only pain

luring its post adolescent decay now gone?

Why must one grieve when there is nothing to bury but still

the loss appears predominant?

Why must happiness be dismissed in dismay

if for all end it merely procreates possibility?

Artificial beats, cold hearted feet

tread upon the frozen dreams of cursory yesteryear-

what good is it to weep when the trepidation congealed

to be but burn wounds causing acrimony?

I ain't got no sins to sleaze upon in tear drunk serenity

nor battle bound pests to summon me into complacency -

and always this verse, why always only but me?

Write what you know best

the apostle pleads - but what of life

and all its tricks and plausible catastrophes?

In all tests that faith forbids to conceal its step

and the moments I negotiate freedom,

I can see the frames of the dream, the sinews sung to delirium

beckoning me to shed advocates of patience and prudence.

So in light of all legal lust and collegian content

and the frantic front shedding now in fine fragments,

Might I be allowing more than what pure reason indoctrinates me-

we'll see.