YOUR WILES WILL NOT WORK ON ME THIS MORNING

The voices in our heads are stopping and starting us as we journey through our lives. I am blessed with the gift of crafting words, this gift quells some of the voices living in my head.

Every word written is a victory against death. Michel Butor

Your Wiles Will Not Work on Me This Morning

I sat on the edge,
on the edge of a
rectangular desk--
built of some kind
of manufactured wood.

I sat on the edge
of my writer's desk
and
thought of you
and the silent words you
say to me every
Monday morning.

It was a burning love affair
filled with
keys and locks,
clocks and steps,
backspaces and forgiveness,
still moving
in a thousand crazy directions,
and then you teased me with a tiny
mirage of right.

I sat on the edge
falling into your fray,
spiraling into your blind imagination,
unraveling under your
words, tempted
by your automated intention.

I sat on the edge of
feminine wiles
and searched for stars
too far
from reach, and realized the dark
reminds me of you,
of your masculine manipulations,
of a child’s need for deceit.

I sat on the edge
looking for the cause
and not the purpose
and know it lives inside
me and I returned to my seat
and I found a simple
love affair with the divine.