The Lunatic, The Lover, and The Poet

Being a hopeless romantic does not

mean I am constantly disappointed

at unmet expectations; the course of

true love never did run smooth.

Seeing the extraordinary in the mundane,

does not mean we are blind to 

the unremarkable,

but freed from those who are stuck

in the shades of grey.

We see spectrums of unseen;

truths in trees, birds, and stones;

recieve foresight in lakes, sky,

and mirrors, and reflect in them

to understand what others pass

off as common.

One wild-haired visionary

told us two ways to look at life:

either everything is a miracle,

or nothing is.

I keep thinking about philosophy,

how we logically view miracles

as things that are impossible, but 

happen; if repeated, they are not

miracles. Truly?

Utilitarian or not, 

I wonder if apostles saw the 

acts of Christ, performed for them

at a rate I’ve not witnessed, myself,

as miracles each time. 

Do we deaden our sights because

something becomes familiar,

or revel every time that beauty

enters our scope?

I am all three of Theseus’s musings,

treated like a fool to those who

see nothing.

Where they see nothing, 

I see what could be.


All anger aside, I tend not to put stock in

an opposing view 

when it has been expressed to me

ad nauseam, and with little

evidence to support, against my claim. 

It’s like having a severe

allergy to something odd, like apples,

and someone keeps pushing that you

aren’t really allergic, they try to trick 

you by sneaking it in your meal, randomly,

hoping to get the reaction of

“Wow, I really loved this,” so they

can confess they put

the allergen into your food, 

and be right.

The reality of your throat closing,

swelling, as you gasp for air,

and they hover above you helplessly,

asking you what’s wrong, is a strong one.

The poisoner can’t understand the allergy

since they don’t experience it as you,

don’t feel sick when they eat apples,

don’t think past what their own experience

allows them to.

Whereas the poisonee is so aware

of the allergy, they keep vigilant

of labels in supermarkets, checking

jams, jellies, juices, candies, and 

baked goods, before they buy the product.

Likewise, when arguing with someone,

who has taken the cardboard cutout

of their specific argument,

and they get mad because you

“won’t hear their opinion,”

remember to listen to yourself,

and only you: not newscasters,

public opinion, nor thought professed

by higher minds. 

You are not less than adult for

backing out of a heated argument when

insults have been cast, nor are you

bitter for your pain, but wise.

Trust your experiences, and your

intuition. Love, if you can manage it,

trust if you dare,

and wrong no one, not even

in a most passionate moment.


This soft bed was alone with me,

as you walked the rooms, ranting.

Stone echoed your words, 

repeating in a dream of 

discordant language in tones 

of sound and fury.

Why must you always rave?

I’m in constant company of

your complaints. I haven’t slept

peacefully in a fortnight, and

your anger only increases in volume.

I haven’t seen you in so long,

and when I venture to complain,

the very sun will stop

to overshadow the moon.

You do not love me. 

You told me this,

only as you rode away.

I believe it. You love only the glory

of bleeding men, know only the 

honor of swords set against each other.

Restless for action, startled by softness,

even to me, you are not gentle. 

I could foretell your ending,

god of war or warrior of God,

you will fall, felled to your own pride

and arrogant nature.


Knee-deep into study of an usurping 

toad uncle, such a villain this,

and there, from the corner of my mirror

stands she.

She whispers fierce curses, eaten up by

anger and a loathsome sense

of entitled bitterness,

wishes only for retribution 

of the dead.

A keen woman in the desert

placed a stake through her story’s

villain, not even a lead role in that play,

 and yet you murmur an aside.

Is it possible the curse lain on you,

the sickness of the rich your

playwright stitched in conversation

might render your disposition 

of your order or principality,

and not the fairer race, that

princes in their greatest desire

to foil an evil plot would be only 

left in words and not in acts?

Phantom, tell me you are dead.

No living, breathing queen would

sound so helplessly for kin.