Extending a hand to a friend therein,
amidst the chaos of a two-fold mind;
he is forced, against his will, to sin,
which leads me to think he is ill-defined.
perhaps, all in all, i am partly to blame,
having tuned to what would keep him sane—
thinking, as he must, that life is a game,
changing, for worse, the wiring of his brain,
and connecting to me from that address.
Indeed, i can’t abandon him, ever,
so i talk to his talent without redress,
instead of the addiction he must sever.
In so doing, the more he would use,
the greater his talent will object,
since i don’t talk to what he’d abuse,
the bad he allows—the bad he’d correct.
Instead of his voice, i intone my own,
which speaks to the person, as he was born,
the person that, for now, he’d disown,
in order to speak to me, once forlorn.
It’s not as easy, anymore, to speak,
until, that is, he reconstructs his brain,
and we can go back to the love we’d leak
from one point to the next, a silent refrain
that engages the faith that we must choose
to find meaning from our humble state,
living ahead of what, ahead, we’d lose
if we denied the calling we abate.
I was no different, lost for a time,
living in a world that would hate me,
if, that is, they knew anything of my crime—
advancing upon an untold destiny,
turning out the centerpiece of my clock,
a world hell-bent on marriage per se,
tending, then, to an exclusive flock,
those that expose what’s partially gay,
a man that, to them, could never be whole.
I don’t know if my friend is also this way,
but mutual love would be his goal:
so he lives with those that make him pay
for being what they could never be—
hypersensitive to the way we’re built,
a function of knowing the enemy,
those that think they live free of guilt.