Once more, with feeling

He tries to break out, escape the pattern
Of wasted mornings, gray beginnings
Where mist blankets the landscape
And raindrops are squeezed from the air
Like teardrops from a forlorn handkerchief

Sensing urgency, he tugs trousers on
Sans under armor, a hooded sweatshirt next
To conceal unkempt hair, aid inconspicuousness
He heads to the diner, face buried
In the days options, he eats and loses himself

Hopes for a new home, a new him
Drives streets of virgin whites and yellows,
Eyes pulsating pinks, vibrant and lush,
Which invite entry, suggest certain delights
If he will take the chance and open up

But possibilities only exist in books for him.
They are safe, captured by their binding.
He stops to stalk the shelves, for a friend
Sees books she would like, a gift
For an anniversary missed, but not forgotten

One by one, he chooses and scans covers
Each note teases and tempts, begs for more
Moments under his attention, whisper
Dig deeper, read me, feel me, know me
Until it becomes too intimate and intense

He starts to sweat, his lips quiver and his heart
Begins to swell, tears well and weep
Drip onto virgin covers, spoil the promise
Held within the pages, in his hands
He abandons the fiction and retreats home

Hammers out the conceit of his reality
For all to observe and admonish the sin
Silly, scared man shaking from syllables
Afraid to read, barely able to write
The lines which sentence him to obscurity
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