• Portrait of an Angel

    Her hair, is the light which my eyes crave,
    like a miner hanging onto a dead cannery.
    Her skin, the silk I lust for,
    like a foreign dignitary in a feudal japan.
    Her eyes, the portal I step through to another world,
    one in which I hope I’m important, and I find all beautiful

    She makes everything right,
    and everything whole.
    She is the Sun to my Moon,
    and the waves to my shore.
    She is the spark to my fire,
    The water to quench my thirst.

    Her voice my childhood memories,
    like the jazz of my passed father.
    Her hands the anointment of god,
    like if I Samson it gives me the strength to conquer my enemies.
    Her approval is which governs my life,
    like a dog waiting for condemnation or commendation.

    She is a reason to live,
    When I see fewer, and fewer every day.
    She helps me stay humble when my ego runs away,
    and strengthens my confidence when I’m in a fit of degradation.
    She is my only concentration,
    stealing more and more of it with each passing moment.
    Her warmth or that which emanates from her is my guide
    like a lantern shining my way home on this cold lone night.
    Her touch my ecstasy,
    Like ambrosia melting my decrepit heart, my métier to survive.
    Her hold is my home,
    like the old brick house back on Haversham

    She puts my heart on my sleeve,
    opening me to true vulnerability in both pain and pleasure.
    She grabs my hand,
    and we run across the beach.
    She taught me one simple lesson,
    It’s better to have tried and to have failed, then to have never tried at all.