By Tony DeLorger © 2015
How many times must I endure,
my own sweet refrain, my beauty predilection,
the guise of all this pain,
when life beckons stark reality, regardless;
the grit of struggle an discrepant lubricant,
to the dim pleasures of superficiality,
revered often and debased by few, including myself.
Pleasures carnal can be an instrument of harm,
its razor edge a familiar bleed,
and yet love in its entirety, moves the world,
and the fullness of it, I have yet to find,
impropriety a waxing visage,
an underlying manipulation for insensible need,
the accumulating self to wholeness.
When has honesty gone,
does it even know of itself, cowering in some dark recess,
nigh used, let alone understood,
and I like any another, seek refuge in blessed intent,
nectar far more appealing than dark viscous blood,
freedom the epiphany, in chains the nightmarish tale,
all for an envisaged salvation.
I choose to wear my pain,
veiled by all I see in appeasement of it.
How many times must I endure,
my own sweet refrain, my beauty predilection,
the guise of all this pain,
when life beckons stark reality, regardless;
the grit of struggle an discrepant lubricant,
to the dim pleasures of superficiality,
revered often and debased by few, including myself.
Pleasures carnal can be an instrument of harm,
its razor edge a familiar bleed,
and yet love in its entirety, moves the world,
and the fullness of it, I have yet to find,
impropriety a waxing visage,
an underlying manipulation for insensible need,
the accumulating self to wholeness.
When has honesty gone,
does it even know of itself, cowering in some dark recess,
nigh used, let alone understood,
and I like any another, seek refuge in blessed intent,
nectar far more appealing than dark viscous blood,
freedom the epiphany, in chains the nightmarish tale,
all for an envisaged salvation.
I choose to wear my pain,
veiled by all I see in appeasement of it.
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