Windmill, in an open field

Who cries for the man that has a greatness forced upon him? And, how far can he recoil into himself out of fear of dereliction.  Or the unrest he will undoubtedly cause.  Or the hyperbole which is now a place called Manhood.  He is a vessel.  I am a man.  One that chooses to parboil circumstance, so that it becomes an apparition of accomplishment.  This arrhythmia lingers with the presence of a woman.  She could be anyone.  It is her. The one with the darker hair?  Yes, I desire her, and her alone, coating my eye with fervent softness.  Anything soft, and those things that could be considered white-to younger girls at an alter.  Yet, the green seems to palpitate when no one is around, the crooked room with a mirror. Call it strange company.  This makes me some parody of black.  A fabricated filler, until a hero comes, actually.  Could I be more outspoken? How about, “She is gone, and I miss her.” Abruptly coming to climax and conclusion simultaneously. Remiss, I have been, to leave idle a beating heart.  Giving a paucity of friendship in a mediocre evening. It was just not enough.  And it is unfair to subject former acquaintances  to amble through my love again, and join me in my bed.  I do want her there, desperately, so next to me.  It’s unfair. If I could only be on the inside.  This pressure is much for her to bear.  Next is a collapse. But I want it.  Just to position here just right to make this transition as smooth as a possibility.  And in an arbitrary rose garden I clip two fresh, and hang them from my breast pocket, where they will remain forever.