Honeyed light pours through doors
like pain from open wounds.
But, no faithless believer, she;
while ladies promenade before her,
mind drifts to memories made.
Rhythms of the night before
bring mysterious butterflies of the soul.
Love comes, incremental over time,
in this courtship under stars.
With each dance they age
until years are counted
as seventy-seven heavens
lived in denial, loyalty,
and responsibility's hell.
Hearts never bankrupt
by whiskey breath
or fevers raging,
he lifts her one last time;
an offering to the lesser gods
who only in death
could separate love
and lover.


I don't know if I'm doing "well" exactly, but at least "better". LOL 

Pleased you doing well, tho your comment on my poem did make me wonder
I hope you never have to go through that again...ouch! Take care hunni 








9 old applause
