For the mouse who builds her house

In the upturned fields

Of God’s creation.

The fog that blinds the treachery

Planned for me by my own heart

Beneath golden dreams

Of temptation.

A pen or pixel – keystroke beneath

Glaring LED – drops hopes

Hurriedly for tomorrow

Of absolution.

The colored page steady time reveals

Is blank for another long hour

That brings no assurance

Of resolution.

Another power comes – not lightly –

To shed brilliant heat

On the crumbled ashes

Of dejection.

A voice whispers, a call pleasantly

Promises peace; I hear

Soft sweet songs – promises

Of inspiration.

Can you surf the emotional wave?
Or will you drown in the depth
Of what I can’t yet say?

A fire that burns too hot.
The smoke gets in your face
and makes you cry and cough;
sputter on; ashamed,
nervous, wanting, confused
at an imaginary problem that isn’t you.

The answer is hold me.
Let me believe.
Let me know that you
want my intensity.

Of hobbits and trolls, bold dwarves
And gently persistent chanting elves,
Mithrandir knows  the secret hordes
That dragons keep for themselves.

In gray or white, to men a storm,
He wanders from cave to clearing;
He takes a hobbit to rob a worm;
Mithrandir always brings a warning.

In Moria he bought
With price paid fraught,
A cloak of white
To catch a light
And bring the world a hope.

From hobbit hole
To courtroom cold
He chased the ring
And made a king.

What excuse can I proffer for pitiless
Amoral inaction or rapid tactlessness
In action? To act and not to be acted
Upon.  Agency cannot be retracted.

A man who stares at a woman
Who ignores that she is beautiful
Cannot hold responsible the man
Who in his turn remains dutiful.

The regret is not personal,
Not private,
Just universal.