I Have A Scripture.

The stall we go to pick
our next ventures
the man there had his eyes
covered with vulgarity.
No, not discrimination
he only said
if we’d show our samples
where we’d gone, what we’d done
how we’d done it
and since I’d been holding
onto your hand tightly;
could I lie, say –
the passed ten years
I lived thoroughly,
bled, let bled;
cried, saved cries;
but in truth
when you were marrying
I was taking pictures
having been the one to have
introduced you,
my documenting; not only of your life
but all lives I’ve come across
is indeed, my living?

I’m a writer, am I not?
Words if not inhaled
can then be stolen
from all the moving limbs around.
Let my thoughts go on a voyage.

Perhaps vulgarity does not apply,
as a gatekeeper
he too would be enticed
by the glow of skin, eyes
carrying voices of those
that keep returning to his stall.
It wasn’t my first time,
each time I’m adorning
a theme of my venture,
like the passed ten years
when I was behind the scenes.
Not remembered, easily forgotten
by even yours truly.

His only mishap, this man
forgot how offensive
can even “how can I help?”
be to those already pointing fingers.

My ticket this time,
Homewrecker…

Ah, I held your hand tightly but
did not break any bones.