My Strongest Weakness

There’s a stain on the ceiling,
Like contour lines of a huge mountain
There’s a hole in the wall, revealing
The path to that forlorn fountain,
With dry leaves that would surely rustle
Under one's feet, leaves from the bustle-
Shaped stem of the Sycamore tree

There’s a brain on the weaning
A mind going through mental puberty,
A soul somehow heeding demeaning
Remarks that pin down hopes of liberty
And narrow the likelihood of calm,
Yet the mind grows somewhat nourished
In spite of all queasiness and qualm,
Yes, that mind determines to flourish

And as we look at the stain over us –
Her head on my chest – she speaks of a journey
(Constantly tugging the blankets that cover us),
And she mumbles something about an attorney
And the papers, the perplexity, the predicament,
The quandary; oh, the obliquity of the words
Proceeding from her mouth: a deceptive testament
And I devote myself, a wary fool that I am

Will she clump me like the dry leaves
And love the crumbling sound and cackle
Or stain me like the ceiling? My heart grieves
Yet I still turn the keys of her despotic shackles;
My soul believes yet this religion gleams fickle.
My hands labour to a vague promise of wages,
I afford a dry and wry smile as tears trickle
Will she clump me and ignore how my soul rages

Am i a victim of my pasture, dying from salvation?
Or just an ill-advised investor, lured and coaxed
Do I philander with the bait to swallow my destruction?
Am I the....





I'm still to finish this poem