Blistered Hearts

        The apathy of the night’s sleep is inflated by the howls of the deep winter hounds. They squall with loneliness knowing only God’s reflective light. For they, like I are among the creator’s mishaps. Ignored as he dotes upon those made opulent by his grace. So we roam unnoticed, and spurned until blame and punishment are needed to unburden the beautiful.

 

        Ignorant are we to the fears we create in those so deeply loved. Their inclination to leave us only the menial of tasks, then brushed aside as a flower of lint clinging to her skirts. So we the lunatic fringe crawl along the dark and angry thoroughfares desperate for even and neglected brass farthing, trodden underfoot.

 

Left then with blistered hearts, spoiled and yellow with age. God’s laughter at my pain familiar as a lover’s touch across my thirsty ungentle skin, cold as a spinster left at the altar. Weeping copious tears while the stingy gadfly turns dumb and paralyzed with love.

-Johnny V.

Nectar'd Kisses

Her smile brightens the vastness of my prison of disposition. Only her unequaled touch can prevent me a mortal sin. To her I owe my egress from a decent toward madness. I hold her heart to my dignity and beg to remain forever within her ardent sight. Her regard can turn my Spartan furiousness to Athenian humour, and her nectar’d kisses turn my stale flesh to rose scented vegetation.

-Johnny V.

Unwashed Queen

Desire presents to me her boney and faltering hand, gloved in childish joys. I take it wanting to amend my cheerless dreams, but tis for naught for my heart is a vacant chair dusted and weak from years of ill-use. The old and unwashed queen sits alone at her brittle and peckish throne. I kneel before her unholy gaze, which is indifferent as the hermit amoung the crowds.

The orb of day begins its climb. I see only the speck that will cloud my joy. Small and meaningless to others my darkness wanders thru the wickets of my spirit. Yes my dimpled cheek may smile but nothing but her embrace will ever gladen my garden. Rejection dooms me to walk the gallows wrapped in the petty shroud of inconstant affection.

-Johnny V.