Could this be true? You say these are traditions,
we keep to these, traditions. Why would we question?
Things to be done this way and that. We don't turn.
We don't change. There is no grey lines when it comes
to you. You say we must do as you say, but what about love?

Glimmer, sparkle, distractions to a raccoon.
Are you more intelligent? Believing I'll fall for these old tricks.
Books tell a story. Poems share and evoke emotions.
Neither give instruction, both fill our head with ideas.

Walk with me. Be my right hand and old it when in need.

Drop the pages that seek a life
that no longer shows in the writing.
A made up memory. A dispassionate
trial that ended up being so filled
of an unspeakable love.
                                       Or was it a fantasy?