I can’t be the anchor to your storm
I can’t be your vixen or trophy
I can’t give you freedom (I have none)
I can’t give you absolute understanding
I can’t pledge my soul; it’s long lost.
I can’t give you my body; it’s far too wretched
I can’t give you attention, so far gone am I,
I can’t be your virgin Faerie Queene,
I can’t be your Empress, my Prince-
I can’t be your model of purity and innocence
I can only give you that which I have to give;
I can give you love of the deepest caliber,
I can give you the devotion of Isolde.
I can give you scratch marks down your back.
I can give you the ruins of a lonely heart.
I can give you a dependent Independent.
I can give you intelligence under-appreciated.
I can give you the last bastion of truth.
I can give you piercing eyes and quicksilver tongue.
I can give you a lost spirit and your kindred soul.
I can give you a captain in your storm.
A child in the dark woods on a rainy day
A Norse warrior screeching for blood and death
A goddess unworshipped, alone on the throne
A holy knight sword aloft, “Non Serviam.”
A tempest of anger, hate and fear
An ideal, a thought, a moral in passing
An untouched virgin quivering beneath lace
A body rotting beneath cold stone
A protector of liberty and justice, not peace
A female Don Juan of virtue and purity
A Roman matriarch urging her son to war
An alto in Paris, “Porgi L’amore” to applause
A Don Quixote arcing toward the glaring sun.
Can’t stop thinking about you,
Even in the arms of the Devil
You shine like the first sunrise
He goads, and shrieks, but my mind;
Only for you, for the delight
Of the philosophical conversations
I have lacked for so long
For the Irish cavalrywoman in me,
For the pain, for the pleasure
For each one intertwined.
And of the nights that last eternity
The sky forever hidden beneath this;
A grand velvet curtain never rising.
Aha.
One touch was all I needed
To receive permission to this
A storm of self-depreciation
A tempest of love unknown.
“I’m going hell, you know.”
But how can something so…
So wonderful, perfect, and true
So amazing, touching, and pure
Be so wrong in deed and duty?
Is it Fate or God, or one and same?
We are ants beneath a looking glass
Children in the darkest storm
Even so, I find myself wondering how
I ever braved it without you.
God hates you, He truly does.
But in his moments of weakness
(Which I’m sure he has)
There are times he looks below
And thinks of fate
And spots two people so sad
But would bring dual joy.
So for lack of timing or restraint
He decides a complicated situation to make
It doesn’t matter to Him the pain it causes
Just so long as his soap opera continues its season.