A Day to Lament

I have to believe
That every cold hard heart has its day
To soul sigh in lamentation of the things
That heart has pushed away

The thing I wanted most
Just was "not meant to be"
Cliche crime against the heart
Bedtime story tragedy
Turns to nightmares in my sleep

A revelation travesty
The wall around the heart
Each brick carefully placed
Each pinhole ray of hopeful light
Blackened with precision purpose
To protect, the wall is built

A slow death
Suffocation of the heart
Like a frog that never leaves
A gently boiled pot
And does not notice
What it has been denied

Well-intentioned fortress
Turned icy lonely tomb
No one's fault, they say
Heart could no longer see the light
Anyway

Scapegoat

For the men that don't love themselves
As much as they are loved

I will bow my head for you,
Bare my slender neck,
Say a last little prayer
That no one will hear.
I will fill my lungs
One last time
With the dying breath
That was yours to breathe.
I will not cry a single tear
Nor beg for the mercy you deserve;
I will bravely await the blade
That was meant for you.
And when my head drops
Onto the bare wood below,
And as the guillotine rises,
Red with wasted innocent life,
My soul will not regret.

I will wear your scarlet letter
Brazenly upon my chest,
Never disputing the crime
That I did not commit.
My glance will never rise,
Acknowledging your shame;
My words will not betray
The guiltless nature of my being.
Taunts, jeers, insults and slander
Aimed at me will not miss their mark,
Nor will a word to defend
Ever escape my lips.
No, I will not dispute your crime
Displayed upon my dress;
I will not lament disgraceful
Misdirected solitude.
And when my shameful grave is dug,
And my family name stricken from the Book,
And my children's bastardized lives
Become wives' tales of old,
My soul will not regret.

I will let them pierce my skin,
Close my eyes to the hammer
As it pounds each nail into my limbs,
Sigh and slowly reflect
On the life I lived in love
And will not cry out
When someone stabs my side,
Even though it was you
Who should have died.
I will embrace the sun's rays
As they beat upon my battered skin
And I will not betray the lie
That keeps me on the cross –
And when my last breath is breathed,
And I have condemned no one,
And no tears of self loathing
Or self pity, or repentance
On my own behalf have fallen,
When my exhausted body
Exhausts its last heartbeat –
My soul will not regret.

No, I will never regret
What I have done for you.

Muted

Like a condemned river only flowing when the Sun's warming eyes are turned away
Or an ocean whose tide will not turn in the presence of the Moon;
The damned creek turns stagnant while the drying lake hungers . . .

Is it because the Sun is so demanding of the water?
The river cries to flow, loves to flow, fights to move along.
Is Moon so cold that the waves' crashing must still?
The waters beg to break upon the shore, implore the sands to pull them up!
Is the damn so coarse, so unyielding so as to choke the brooks' kind babble?
The fragile waters live to feed the lake, cry out to serve their love . . .

The purest desire of the waters is to quench, to feed, to form the Earth
They miss their younger days, when rock and air and shore alike welcomed their cool touch,
When Earth's arms opened wide, the Sun's love nurtured the rippling, pristine surface
When Moon's kind pulls were playful tugs, gentle suggestions of serenity . . .

The rivers' path too many times has been cut off; brutal violent amputation of its life force
Has killed its trusting flow,
Has dried its faithful beds,
Has quieted is passion; its power dormant in a muted soul.

Ocean's strength was once matched only by her beauty,
Her mercy rang out as predictable tides glorying the sunsets,
Sparkling for the Moon,
She once danced, and took lovers, and championed the Earth . . .

But sickness has torn her apart, heated her cool composure, weakened her strength,
She hesitates to break upon the shore, refuses to hold safe the treasures of Man.
She rages silently at the pollution of her soul, thirsting for a better part of herself.

The child-creek, keeper of creatures and critters and embodiment of trust
Has been damned up, forced into stale oblivion,
Starved of playful bubbling along the countryside,
Terrified to carve another unsure path along the crumbling mountainside,
She huddles alone inside herself for warmth, wishing for more innocent days.
She cannot remember how to laugh.

No fault of the loving, ever-endearing Earth, or passionate Sun, or wise and watchful Moon
Their patient vigil is soft encouragement to the disenchanted waters,
Igniting in them a flame, a grim memory of life.
With time, perhaps, the river will remember how to flow
With warm attentions, healing words, with Father Time's merciful movement
Perhaps a wave will dance upon the shore again.
Perhaps one day a child may stumble upon a laughing creek,
And perhaps She will carry child's sticks and leaves upon her back, playing once again.

So shine on, precious, sacred Sun,
Lead and guide and gently urge the tide to awaken from its muted slumber,
Patient Moon.
And, solid, loyal, enduring Earth,Remind the streams that you are there – embrace them,
Decorate them once again with your bounty . . .

Reminding water of her resilience
Will be the greatest love
In time