Accepting a position to serve and give then thrive.

Ripping my heart out and stomping on it with a spatula.
Seeing you hurt gives me more reason to try harder.
The screaming of your cough rakes over my mind with shivers,
little icy fingers pricking at my spine.

One cannot define love by the hugs and kisses.
One cannot spell affection with a thrust and orgasmic twitch.
One seeps into the true meaning of caring by lifting up another
and going beyond strain and comfort to proffer all effort to heal and build up.

Can you see, can you feel, can you win by losing yourself?
How will this loss take from me or does it only add?
Must there be a time of empty? Must I feel despair and rending of last hope?
Where is the remedy? Who will give it? Is it already mine yet I shun it?

Trample on my feelings.
Scramble my plans and desires.
Crash my dreams and need.
And I will look at you, Destruction and laugh.

The sinking and dust coating and attempting to weigh down my heart
have no power as breath cleans the way and opens my inner eyes.
Stapled to a parcel of flying doing and angry will to go on, my intensity
is not submerged and rises with the morning and loving moon.

Hero, I am not. Valient is not my name. Bravery often eludes me.
But, I will not be defined in a mythical character yet by the sweat and blood,
the handing over of volunteer servitude. By the measure of empathy.
Let me feel your illness and take it from you, cure you of its hold.

The night is my friend and the day, my confidant. There are no enemies only challenges. No failures only times of learning. Problems to be solved either by cunning or epoch. A season of barren waste followed by a season of bounty. Her sadness will pass and I will bring my compassion to honor and comfort.

It is mine to cook and clean. To care for our children. To watch over our home. To supply you with the soup of healing and to massage your scalp as well as your spirit to not fall into darkness. I am here for you. No duty is too great. I ask only she is my mate and the sparkle of my name remain in her voice.

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Image for post
Photo by Victor Freitas on Unsplash

This poem is dedicated to my wife whom I thought had the flu but found out has pneumonia. She is almost past the illness but my spirit is with her.

May all that read my feeling find a common thread somewhere in life and be dedicated in whole to the cause or person you treasure.

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.

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