To make a long story short, I exist,
and thrive, at a distance, forgiving this
life of solitude, a slap on the wrist,
considering I’m hardly taking the piss,
and refusing to look at beautiful women
out of spite, to punish myself, for being
unavailable, as if I’d a choice, then,
and as if I’ve a choice, now. Nothing
stops me from indulging myself, a choice,
i think, to love myself, and the choices
I made, long ago—arranging my voice,
and the power to voice my preferences.
Why should I do without? I can still look,
and use my imagination, playing
the future by ear, going by the book,
when I want, forging my own ending.
I shan’t squash the light inside of me
simply because I cannot touch what I
desire—they present themselves, to see,
and they are gentle, as such, to my eye,
and, ultimately, with me. I’ll take what
I can get—what is offered, and for free,
costing me nothing. So what if I cut
to the chase, and observe what will be,
in heaven—the perfect bodies that, in
and of themselves, will be available
to me, since anybody’s looks could win
me over, there, perfect as His consul,
my earthly imagination, as it is, now.
But with beauty comes responsibility,
and I must stick to the job I allow,
a day spent without His imagery,
faces and bodies that turn me on.
To that end, in this imperfect world, I
limit the power that she would fawn,
like an angel, over me. He, too, spy
of me, conducting my fantasies,
is beautiful, and lives, I think, to no end.
I walk a line, then, seeing what He foresees,
around this mountain, this earthly bend,
that protects both my work and soul
from too much of anything. Safety
is my goal, so I live on His womanly dole,
safe as the idea of notoriety,
contained, for good, by my shell, and the love
that I accept, from myself, from others,
those that offer themselves, those I dream of,
when, in the morning, or thanks to my druthers,
come nightfall, she lights up my screen, sends
me to my happy place, a world that, in time,
accepts me, as He that comprehends
me, now, already does. So I take our chime,
her version, I think, of my rhyme, and store
it away in the back of my mind, there
when I allow for it, the love that I restore
from time out of mind, subject to His care.