Intrusion
Without apology
Making the passage
Of years
Inconsequential,
Leaving me
Finger painting
In dust,
Mocking
My penchant
For relevancy,
unnerving
And disturbing
The order within me;
Staining
My emptiness
With your colours and scent,
The way your windows
Burn red
Long after the sun has set.
This one was more real to me. Thanks.
You're welcome, Arthur - of course, we all are moved by different things subjectively. Sometimes, I write a poem and begin crying because it touched me--other times, I feel nothing, but others are moved. The more I go on, the more sensitive I become - I always thought it'd be the other way and cursed my sensitivity when I was younger. I see now that it's a gift, but I didn't always see it that way - I felt different and just wanted to be normal - strong, silent...inauthentic, I suppose, just like the other guys I hung out with who were never moved deeply by much. Needless to say, I don't see them anymore. Perhaps a necessary price to pay.
Remember the cop friend your main character had in a story of yours (the 1930's one). Maybe the inspiration for him came from something inside you telling you that you need a friend like him?
Oh, Abe Rosen! - For sure, that's exactly right and very perceptive of you - I loved his character. You are very intuitive!