Envisage

Sheets wrinkled from last night's sweat,
Stains of a fine Merlot, I cannot rid my shirt of
She lies still in my bed wrapped in those sheets
How can emptiness fill something till it bursts?
Yes, I composed poems with twisted clichés
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as are Vanity and Jealousy
I bear these sins, and wish to though cannot leave.
There are many petals on this rose
and spots on its stem where thorns once stood
But I needn't carry her grocery bags
They aren't as heavy as they seem.


(I wrote this several years ago. It's one of my favorites yet I don't have an inkling as to why.)