《Lionheart Poetry Collection》


 Still Frame of a Tapestry

    Where can I even begin in description?


    Most would venture forth an opinion beginning with first impression alone.


    Vain fools.


    The art of Gods must needs be examined by one with as good an eye as I, for mine eye,


    filled not with lies, flies true through the dry cries of childhood demise.


    Plain tools.


    They cannot possibly fathom the art that takes part in piercing mine heart like a dart.


    Regain rules.


    Circular oceans of the darkest chocolate,


    made to captivate me as a sailor to a siren. Left breathless, I have a need to avert


    my mind and eyes, for fear that the kind mind of this art would find my


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    Damn-near blind sign.


    Retain cool.


    The smile that this art was given would stave off the yawn that the dawn creates as you


    lie on the lawn discussing whether brain beats brawn, or whether Stones are better


    than Beatles in a Yellow Square Park.


    Remain under rule.


    Perhaps the most captivating, is when the art¡¯s brunette tapestry waves in the wind as a


    sail upon a ship or a tide on an ocean. Ever time I bear witness to such a sight,


    my heart enters Fight-or-Flight though only choosing Flight for fear of


    Complicating the art itself.


    Cowardly shame.


    The Playboy currently owns this art and refuses to part with it, though rarely thinks or


    Cares for it. Being another object upon his shelf to forever radiate in every image


    or synonym for maddening and offensively provocative despair.


    One day, I hope that I may call this art my own. But while the Playboy continues to play,


    I shall continue to stay away until the day that I can pay the correct dues that not


    Even the playing Playboy can delay the ensuing dismay.

 Nothing more than a mere Fantasy of the Heart

    ¡°I¡¯ve been having trouble, of late.¡± said the Fool.


    ¡°What sort of trouble?¡± asked the Beauty.


    ¡°A trouble of the heart, my dear sweet Beauty. But I shan¡¯t trouble thou so.¡± replied the


    Fool.


    ¡°Oh, please. Do tell!¡± begged the Beauty.


    ¡°Thou can¡¯t be serious...mine own tongue, loquacious though it may be, couldn¡¯t possibly


    Captivate thine attention for more than a mere minute!¡± cried the Fool.


    The Beauty, not having even changed expression, awaited the Fool to speak. With a sigh,


    the Fool began to tell of his woes, confident now the Beauty shall listen to the


    entirety of the tale.


    ¡°Mine heart hath been captivated, dear sweet Beauty. So much so, that it threatens to turn


    me from Fool, to Beast within a single beat of the heart.


    I have written letters to whom my heart is held captive...though she hath not received


    any such letter. They line mine own room as a field is lined with its own


    melancholy landmines. I shan¡¯t give a single one to this woman, my dear sweet


    Beauty, for if I do, I do so knowing I shall jeopardize the relationship I already


    possess with her, though it be not of an intimate one, I shalt forever hold it dear,


    for its meaning is far greater than any moral a false God holds true.¡± sorrowed the


    Fool.


    ¡°Why not simply give her a letter in secret, judging her reaction as either pleasant or


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    displeasant?" suggested the Beauty.


    ¡°Alas, my dear sweet Beauty. ¡®Tis not that simple. Those letters shalt forever remain


    merely a fantasy of the heart.¡±


    Clearing his throat, the Fool pressed onward as a Soldier lone in a battlefield.


    ¡°Damn my cowardice, my dear sweet Beauty! I have not the courage, nay, the audacity to speak of my feelings I hold for her!


    My dear sweet Beauty, the mere flow of her hair seems to mimic the flow of the Ether,


    nay, Time itself! It is as if Cosmos herself weaved a fabric of cloth out of her own


    constellations!¡± sorrowed the Fool.


    ¡°Why not take this leap of Faith, my dear sweet Fool? Thou couldn¡¯t possibly have


    entered this woman¡¯s mind to know it this easily!¡± suggested the Beauty.


    ¡°Alas, my dear sweet Beauty. ¡®Tis not that simple! She would laugh and dismiss such a


    compliment, as so many others have done in the past.¡±


    Clearing his throat, the Fool pressed onward as a lone Romantic in a field of white roses.


    ¡°To hell with this fear, my dear sweet Beauty! If not for it, I could simply make my


    feelings known and be done with the rejection.


    To look into her eyes, the small pools of the most exquisitely crafted Belgian chocolates,


    to see the pure, yet worn, soul that resides deep within, day after day...would


    make me the happiest Fool to reside upon this dying Earth.¡± sorrowed the Fool.


    ¡°Why not simply gaze into this soul and say what needs to be said? Thy sorrow hurts me


    so, my dear sweet Fool!¡± suggested the Beauty.


    ¡°Alas, my dear sweet Beauty. ¡®Tis not that simple. For you see, I have already begun such


    a quest, though the dear sweet Beauty I am speaking to hath not the faintest clue,


    even now¡­¡± sorrowed the Fool.


    The Beauty¡¯s hazel eyes grew wide with the sudden realization, then burst into tears,


    embracing the Fool.


    ¡°Thou certainly are the Fool, for not informing me sooner and without a riddle.¡±


    suggested the Beauty. ¡°And so you are now mine, my dear sweet Love.¡±


    The Fool closed his book and released his pen, wiping the tears from his eyes. He


    clutched the chest that contains his stolen heart. It ached...oh, how it ached!


    ¡°Terribly sorry, my dear sweet Old Friend. Thou must hold tightly to thy feelings, for, I


    fear, they are nothing more...


    Than a mere Fantasy of the Heart¡­¡± sorrowed the Fool.

 "Cleopatra, O my Cleopatra"

    ¡°Cleopatra, O¡¯ my Cleopatra,


    Your beauty hath no one extra.¡±


    For thy actor¡¯s line recite;


    ¡°Thy usefulness knows no bounds,


    Though thy pride doth fly no higher than I,


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    Thy heart rivaled by only thy courage,


    Is so very full of love indeed.¡±


    ¡°Cleopatra, O¡¯ my Cleopatra¡± I reply.


    ¡°Smitten by thy bronze skin and eyes the color of the auburn high skies


    Amidst the blind eye going to cry


    ¡®Why¡­why must I stand by waiting to try and fly high beyond the wall of Rye Sky?¡¯


    But therein lies the bare end of the near end of blending in to the sadistic grin that cripples me so.


    Cleopatra, O¡¯ my Cleopatra, it is for thy that I continue to try and why¡­I suppose I cannot lie.


    I¡¯ll never truly know.¡±