Saturday, August 2, 2014


Every judgment of conscience, be it right or wrong, be it about things evil in themselves or morally indifferent, is obligatory, in such wise that he who acts against his conscience always sins. Thomas Aquinas

She has been lost wondering about for days,
no emotion, aware of their impetus purple haze.
What’s up with the girl! I even tried shaking her free,
to no avail; in-love with me in a precipitous day-dream.

Zero, zilch, nada…
As nothing seems to work,
I’m starting to feel like a heavy handed jerk.
This sweet lady of mine, I love her so!
She’s my North, wouldn’t you know.

In a distance, I watch her…
Participating in monotone conversations,
edacious to any organic sensations.
Eating food, not remembering its taste,
letting time pass, aware it’s been a waste.
Despair? Or she doesn’t care?...
Benign to the neighbor’s bitch dog,
who barks control at the edge of the bog,
as if this forestalls; a walk around,
to the seawall where I’m to be found.

Oh there’s more…
In her town, where vermin eat their young,
that’s the dark side where the moon’s hung,
as they profess descendants; to a kindness in humanity,
all liars in lairs; filled in stench, thorns and depravity.

So, yes there it is…
I love this woman that walks without aim,
absent from tint, noise or complicated acclaim.
She exists invisible to them all,
As she starts building that formidable wall.

© Copyright by Diana Mary Sharpton 2014 ~ All Rights Reserved

1. Photograph:

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