Love: A Day that Burned in the Night

Mindlessly drunk

I am compelled to remind you

That I am not really a writer

But just a man

With the same desperations

Hopes and dreams

As any other man

To live, to love

To believe and to hope

These are the things

That a man desires

And this may be my last poem

I was caught yelling

at the moon and stars tonight

and I may face the fine

of incarceration.

But wild drink leads us

To do wild things

And in wine, there is truth

Hope, honor, peace and silence

These are the things I frankly believe,

And have been lead to die for.

Poetry was always given to us

In high school

As though it was something that

We should understand.

How could one understand?

I now ask myself.

Where they expecting me to know love

When I knew not love?

I had read Romeo and Juliet

And of course, as a young man

I knew what young, passionate love meant

It was a bright, idealistic fire

That burned and sparkled between two individuals.

Entirely just; a day that burned in the night.

Not necessarily something that sequestered

Tired individuals wrote about

Nowadays, as a grown up

I am entirely saddened

To learn that love requires confidence

Trust and security

Nothing of the spriteliness and sanctity

I had thought it deserved

But is love a fire, that is burned in our hearts?

Or is it an afterthought, a mild passing feeling

That we feel, after all is said and done?

To those who drink, time will tell.

To those who rest and lie with their loved ones

We shall see.

I rest and lie in hope

In the sanctity of honor

Because I finally know

How childish

How dishonorable

How uncontrollably sad

You can be

When there is hope

You can see darkness

When there is light

You can see shadow

When there is honor

You can see fear

When there is nothing but love

You can see bitterness

Disaster strikes unsudden

And so I am destined to lie,

To consider your truth to be lies

And love is a desperate art

Perhaps a brave, considerate art as well.

One that takes conscience, consideration and care.

Love is passionate

Love is remembering

Love is forgetting

Yes I know

But of course, forgetting is so difficult

And so shall be remembering as well.

Remembering this consternation

This conflagration of lies

Shall be the most demanding task

I have ever entertained

Yes, you are all guests in my living room

So Sad, because I do not want you

But you show up just the same.

You are not my lovers

But poor substitutes for my passion

As I know I am

As I must be

Honorably, and consistently

To yourselves.

Thank you