I posted part of this old poem not long ago, but, after nearly twenty years, forgot that the rest was scattered through the journal. Here is the complete poem:
How tender is a sweet caress,
A moment of masculine weakness.
Bright thoughts, drained of duress,
The simple ecstacy of touching silken tresses.
Doe-eyed bliss reflected in a lover’s eyes,
Crumbling under love’s bitter cries.
Frightful thoughts of denial dies,
Grasping for the ephemeral grace of spiritual ties.
Despairing dissipation of such as these,
Mournful melancholy easier to please.
Selfish thoughts and long-sought companionship disagrees,
When a fool forsakes contentment and leaves.
Waking hours force a forgetfulness,
Lucid thoughts deny guilt its redress.
Through my own error I dwell alone,
Lacking in a simple chance to atone.
It is a daily agony that I possess,
That I am too much a fool to assess
The terrible passing of a gift in my life,
Of an injured woman who would be my wife.
So life has progressed over a considerable time,
Dodging relationships as though they were a crime.
I have lived these years fearful of a mistake,
Avoiding offerings of love, too terrified to take
Bitterness and cynicism is my daily existence,
Supporting a rude and coarse appearance.
Yet, buried within my incessant thought,
My heart of hearts proclaims it all for naught.
Against my every rational appeal,
There emerges an aspect it cannot conceal.
When the facade is rent and exposed,
A truth is revealed that resides in repose.
There exists an understanding of what is obscured,
A spirit of compassion that resists any overture.
Fondness of my weakness resists any exposure,
Harshness is a mask to obfuscate my composure.
I leave behind the oft ascribed muse,
A font of inspiration that I scorn to choose.
Poetic ineptitude lurks behind her fame,
Whereas I surrender and draw upon my pain.