I’m strong when you are weak,
brave when you are meek,
bold when you are shy,
and hold you when you cry.
I am my lady’s champion,
her lover, and companion.
You’ll find no other quite like me –
the epitome of gallantry.
But service comes with a steep cost
and the marks of what I’ve lost
criss-cross underneath my mail,
marking all the times I’ve failed.
And few will know how much I’ve grieved
for not being as strong as she believed.
I’m sorry you were hurt
charging deep into the fray –
the two dozen other people
were getting in the way.
So sorry that the fire
left you with a burn
but there were just so many
that you had to wait your turn.
It’s a pity that their General
beat you black and blue;
perhaps if you’d been careful
he would have ignored you.
Maybe you should learn to fight
instead of blaming me tonight.
We are those who go bump in the night:
the shadows on the wall, the small child’s fright.
We’ll terrorize you to our delight
before swallowing up the last of the light.
We are the shades who hunt the line
between our world and that of thine.
On sweetest sins we nightly dine,
a desecration quite divine.
We have lived long through the ages
and lurked between your fables’ pages.
We’ve supped upon your finest sages
and shouldered your worst warriors’ rages.
The time has come; your end is nigh
as our wings blot out the sky.
You’re stumble, mumble fumbling,
so messed up that you’re tumbling
down heights and hills and high ways –
but please steer clear of my ways.
Your noxious scent’s quite petulant,
your manners aren’t quite heaven-sent,
and your broken bones are jonesin’
with gangrene fermentosin’.
Your slack-jawed face that lacks awe
has seen the wrong side of a hacksaw
and you lost your ear right over ‘ere
and I think I can see your derriere…
Well…I’ll do God’s work and put you down
with a bullet right upon your crown.
I’m different from the pack –
I stand on the outside.
Always on guard for an attack,
always prepared to hide.
Is it so hard to just accept
and love me as I am?
Why do you feel you must reject
and hurt me once again?
I cannot change my ways –
it would be a lie
though honestly some days
I’m tempted to try.
So I’ll stand proudly, full of grace,
while tears are trailing down my face.
Please save me a kind word –
it’s been one of those days
where I still haven’t heard
a single word of praise.
Would it really be a trial
to stop by with coffee
or to linger a while
while sipping your tea?
Share with me a moment
of companionship
that would make me less lament
this day of utter shit.
For it’s in small gestures that I find
peace of spirit and of mind.
Ten little soldier toes
are marching along.
All lined up in rows
singing a song.
The pinkies are the infantry
and vow to stay the course.
The rings toes are the cavalry
perched astride their horse.
The middle are brave musketeers
with rifles at their side.
The index are chevaliers
brandishing their pride.
The big toes are the king and queen
though which is which cannot be gleaned.
I hear the pounding on the wall
which is surely being worn
by the fury of the squall,
by the raging of the storm.
I see falling torrents of rain
drifting o’er road and grass,
clinging to the window pane,
and tapping on the glass.
I can smell it in the breeze
through the opened window’s screen
carrying the scent of trees,
musty and yet somehow clean.
And I can feel it getting stronger
gearing up to last even longer.
I meet you by the door
and pin you ‘gainst the wall.
And when you can’t take any more
I drag you down the hall.
I tease you out of every thread
until your flesh is bare
and lay you down upon the bed,
atop a halo of your hair.
I discard my clothes
and draw up to your side
and watch the blushing rose
that you shyly try to hide.
And, at last, we begin
our long-awaited night of sin.
I listen for the song
every time that I go out.
I can’t help but sing along
and sometimes dance about.
I hear it in the breeze,
howling through the moors,
stirring up the trees,
and racing ‘long the shores.
I hear it on a sunny day
and more-so from the moon
in every golden, glowing ray
and each quiet, silver croon.
The voice of the world soul
out and about for a stroll.
A (wise) man of two faces 