If hearts could pump poetry
and not blood
then I’d fill a needle with words
and shoot up
rhyme
rhythm
tempo
and time
I’d have a heart that could keep pace
with my intentions, then,
and a living that amounts to a life.

What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.


Tell me not that you are broken
but where you are whole
so that I might touch those things
that can be told of without tears,
and tell them often,
independent of the grief of your years.
Happy vignettes of a ruined man.

You are the dream I might have
if leaden circumstance had left me
as pure of intention as you.

A thousand times we spoke too late
of insecurities, faith and consequence.
Only now do my eyes seek you
unbidden at odd moments.

It is not (enough) for us
to do the right thing.
I must want you for my own reasons.
I dream of you in every season,
make your resolve my long winter,
your persistence my spring.

I am born into your bliss
in ignorance each night
and awaken only to dream again.

03/26/2003

Author's Note: "What matters most is how well you walk through the fire." -- Charles Bukowski. (Thanks for the line, Hank.)

Posted on 03/31/2003
Copyright © 2025 Lacy D Phillips