by George "Pap" G.

papagtg@swbell.net

Who am I? Why am I? A dreamer of all things Dark and solo. Isolated. Doubts. Fears? Lies? This my therapy, my plight. Obscure.

What do I have to offer? Tears. Green-eyed. What a sight. A Houstonite. Confused?

Tattooed covered arms, with no one to hold. Whose smile will be my nightlight?

Who to protect in the night? Dignified? Who to love by the fireside? Mad?

Scared covered hands, unheld. Shall I be bold? Alibies airtight? Desolated.

A marriage fled. Not one for picket fences and apple pie. Polite? Sad?

Other’s words read, inspiring lonely dreams. Unqualified to love? Somber. Sober.

A hobbit friend. Miles of smiles yet to ride. Is Summerland above? Not afraid to fight.

A rider. Can I cry? Black heart so very cold. Will I find delight in the daylight?

A Warrior? No man do I fear. A Biker to demystify? Who with me will glide?

Old songs sung, strings played. Love left untried. A heart still full? Contrite?

Guitars and empty notes. Not a fall guy. One with perfect hindsight.

Witches loved, bitches touched. Kissed, but, never told. Clean.

Wrenches turned. Self satisfied with self pride? Not a sodomite.

Sleds. White lines of days past still haunts. A sprite? Solitary.

Empty beds. Cried drip dry. Soul sold? Mysterious.

To my boys alone, "I love you" said. A singer of lullabies?

A house full of books, read alone. A lost knight? forlorn.

Full moons and skyclad rites. I seek the truth, not the limelight.

Magick and a Goddess love. No longer a neophyte of the moonlight. How I love midnight. Openness. Blue bonnets and Old Galveston Bay, under blue skies. Will I again love at spring tide? Essene truths. Justified inside? World-wide? Seven branches, seven roots. No longer Yuletide. Seeking what is right. Templar nights of signs and tales. Who truly has the might? Who will sing for the widow’s mite? An orphan of the weeping widow? Am I a myth? All crusades now within. Sinister?

Will I have the foresight, to plan for the coming of the light? Bloodlines and a Holy Grail. Tonight, memories are tight around my songs. Words of rhymes, seem to ease no pain. But, in the twilight of this day, as I look at pictures of a friend never met, I wonder. Unite? Typewrite or handwrite a real letter? Oh, my jumbled thoughts, tossed together, bouncing off of the picturless walls of my broken little mind. Freedom found on a steed of steel. Iron Horse rolling along an asphalt path to liberty. Wind in my hair. Bugs eaten. Caesar beaten. In frankness, truth. Finding what as I ride? Still alone. True to me?