Labor of the Heart

A labor of the heart

Is fickle for breaks time may yet impart;

Yet hearts all given up to labor

May find that flesh bears yet no flavor

Such that withered bones

Gilded on those rusted thrones

Reach evermore for other’s flames

To find the hearth within lies tamed.

No soul, within mortality leashed

Can ill afford to rush time’s feast.

Ours may yet be to wonder why,

But think too long and there you’ll lie.

Life’s purpose is the lurking feeling

That man must find his own life’s meaning.

Perceptions

Divinity in a smile

These eyes, like stars alight

To stoke the fires of this passionate

Elation, embrace of thought

That tickles yet the nervous breath

Coiling through the nerves—

Sensory serendipity.

Watching this Mirage

Deception of romance

Serpentine coils of medusan gaze

Wrapping around this memory

Of a man, once knowing

These lines, unrestricted,

Entwining about his heart.

The portrait and the face

Smiling through the frown

Of this imaginary madness

We’ve come to call a life

Will this define

Or refine

Your perception of meaning?

What dreams we greet

To hide the nightmare

Of reality.