They say chivalry is dead I found that hard to believe There must be a few proper gentlemen Scattered sparse across this wide world Yes, this is what I thought- Until the day of the Kroger parking lot Where I became a believer A believer of the sad cold fact That in this cold and crazy world we call our own All the real gentlemen must be gone! Some poems read like stories And some stories read like poems Which pray tell is this? You decide. When keys are locked inside the car Not once Not twice But thrice And tears fall upon unforgiving asphalt When numerous number of pedestrian and sweet old men Walk by without a care in their head That’s how you know for sure- Chivalry is dead! Its dead Its buried Its spirit has moved own And no one mourned but merely scoffed that so foolish an idea had been known- And shame on you good sir! You know who you are- I hope and pray you find yourself locked out of your car!!!!!
He reaches out to comfort me, as I lay sleeping, stirring ... bad dreaming? Not even a conscious thing, yet he thinks of me! A gentle hand A sleepy "there, there" gestured mindlessly in the air and I fall all over again with this amazing man- The man who keeps on winning my heart with his sarcastic smile and soulful need to make me laugh Asleep, Awake Make no mistake- That man is mine.
There he goes- the Goblin king- or perhaps I shouldn’t credit him so? But I’ve run short on metaphor as I’ve named the beast as many times. He troubles me, this manly demon and will not abate. He walks these halls as if they belong to him but only one man may lay legal claim here and You are not him , good sir. No, you are not him. You think yourself slick, sneaking about shadows, hiding behind your sicky sweet smile. Offering the appealing fruit of friendship- how shall I tell friend from foe? From your cubby hole, tucked around some corner, yet always watching, walking the grounds, inspecting all, an overlord with worn-out and weary soles- snatching up babes in their sleep or maybe, more realistically, just arguing with brick walls as you like to do. What’s that I smell? A fierce scent that rides the wind- the poison that pours from a broken man. Careful, don’t breathe it in! Or perhaps merely the bog of eternal stench. They’ll be no bargain had here, sir. No quid pro quo of my ...
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