Broken, unprepared to play the game,
too much effort for too little gain,
the love most people offer,
and most out of need pursue
what they believe to be love,
when all they are, proffers opportunity
to better their life, and for all that
and other reasons why, I remain a monk.
Intentions reek of dishonesty,
not just to me but themselves,
falling hard to their needs fulfilled,
and love as good a reason as any other
to acquire the comfort they feel lost without,
and sacrifice they will to play this game,
as priorities and adjustment
their long game, already busted.
If there is no reality, no truth within,
how can a soul as I, for even a moment
align in thought, the advances sought
in selfish ruse of love’s fantasy,
a flower in a perfect garden to bloom,
when the premise is a lie,
a self-deceiving play of conviction,
while their truth is far from convincing.
The signs are everywhere,
and worse as we age, for the baggage people carry
is a burden too great, a step taken too late,
and even though I yearn to be whole
in love’s embrace, I can see no common ground,
no understanding of love or life,
just the sound of selfish bleating,
will reaping a self-serving want.
I am not cynical, the proof is everywhere,
not my tainted view of it, so many desperate,
seeking the comforts of childhood fantasies,
and having been hurt, alert to anything better,
not chosen out of love but necessity,
a surrender to a lessor expectation,
to be not alone, to be in some way needed,
and that desperation is frighteningly real.
I am whole, need no more to secure my happiness,
for it is there already, and I’ll not play any game,
refrain from shallow passing that only reaps loneliness,
and if love in sincerity does not appear
then that is my lot, accepted,
for love lives within me and flows freely,
and insincerity abides no world I inhabit,
no cause I can attest.
Tony DeLorger © 2018