Remnant of Duty

Upon my threshold you landed, a broken winged and bitter angel. The tortured but silent cries you hid from the world played the sounds of Gabriel's Brass deep inside my ears. I took you into my compassion and nursed your tattered dreams and lost courage. Your strength diminished you clung to my solemn oath.

The further I cared for your wounded body the deeper became my love for your precious soul. But in synoptic time as your body matured in strength your reliance on me left your bosom. For never has the healing power of love been bested. I denied the truth of your move to personal indigence.

Although my eyes and heart did weep, my mind did apprehend that your invigoration was not meant for me. I know that our walk together was only a seductive tally, your ultimate step to disembarrass could only be taken alone. I was capable of assist no longer for even the Lord himself knows that love is the remnant of duty.

Indifferent Eye

             From the refuge of the deep brush she watches my fall from grace, knowing she, the single cause. I tread to the edge of the precipice, look to the heavens shouting my votive oblige toward her naked God. Holding still to the predict of our flimsy romance, and her promiscuous chaos. My eye, blind and bitter refuses to accept the expiring  ruin of her heart.

                Her fickle bosom perplexed by my hapless fate yet remains  unaltered by my despairing battle against her secret fire of unhallowed promises. I look down and know that this exit would feel like the stale stench of unwanted dreams. One small step, she gasps, as if to beg me restraint. But her need for delight outweighs her false sympathy.

               So with an indifferent eye she looks for me to prove to her my devotion. I fear that I will never atone until I resign my final dispose. Her victims crave that my wakeful nature will sink beneath  my devouring grave. So with my briny lips in full bliss I curse her Iron-foiled martyrs and with one inalterable measure bid my muse adieu.

-Johnny V.

The Rose

Stand prudent and be prideful in your passion for the rose, fear not the prick of the thorn. Know that it is only the stained bloodof pain which reveals the depth in the cloth of love. Step quickly on to the bright stage and let your follies be your only regret, because thru quiet and rest shall you recline in bier.

Heavenly souls may to you be denied but do not weep, for below God's sentry all have chance to brand their charriot's footprint along the sands of joy. Lips that once beguiled shall be ever tethered to your spirit and hearken solely to its whispers.

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Wet Lies

While she drowns in his insufficient love, he fills her heart with wet lies. His true suma is clouded in her passion stained eyes. Once caught in his false warmth she is ever lost, for his anatomy is a hospice with a more craggy bed.

His touch sears her pale flesh but she feels only the brush of a cool mountain breeze. His breath is foul and strict with the essence of death but her sense is only that of a flower garden in spring.

Their stumble to destiny's mark will remove her youth and innocence. He will emerge vibrant and strong for he long ago paid death's glorious toll, and knows well the frigid and dark corridors of Hell's library.

-Johnny V.

False Knight

                I step on the far side of the threshold and smile, for I foolishly believe I am free of her. Then like an infected wound she shows her true nature and the pain inundates back and drowns my very being, I am unable to stop her dapple brown swellings and their destructive spread eastward.

                I hold stock-still to her false promises. Though my pen is blunt and culls the dispose of humanity to her ink well, I will never write her anthem on given parchment. She crosses the wakening spring and can exuviate truth at a glance, she sips with greed from immortal drink knowing it laced with pithy hemlock and holds but a single glimpse of redemption.

                I see well that my valiant effort becomes a feeble attempt that will avail not. And despite my diamonds fleshy aura the valley lilies are deemed to wither. I battle against miters and crowns, hear my infant brother cry out, waste not new blood on old wounds.

-Johnny V.

Her Nervy Minstrel

He oft times is as a wild wretch and can drag down those near him to his folly where joy dare not cross. She was first to ever adore him, yet she refuses to follow him downward into his dank moisture realm. For it affords He oft times is as her as his handmaiden when finally desire to return consumes his wayfaring spirit.

Needing as he must to seek out the peacefulness and spongy sod of his quiet solitude.  Using tranquil eye she will recognize that he could only allow but a minor collection into his weed - hidden heart. So with gentle patience she waits knowing that his tattered soul although a splendor of woe will forever be her nervy minstrel.

So hand in hand they pace, she his alone and he to her. Unaware of fools and rakes, blind to the hapless stranger. Forever entertwined unsure where each begins or ends.