We were taught about this love.
From those who never knew.
They had heard the stories of.
From the dreamers and the few.
These survivors of those wars.
Who heard this from above.
To teach in words and metaphors.
To live, lie, and say I love.
I’ve heard them speaking of.
Just not certain or so sure.
I said I don’t believe in love.
So altruistic and so pure.
The cold brought frost.
The earth is frozen now.
The crowds dwindled.
Some dared to venture past steamed glass.
Only those with awkward footwear…
Found anything resembling comfort.
For nothing else will do here.
Cold Arctic air sweeps south over hard frozen tundra, raising hairs on hunched backs…
It got cold here first of December.
And all the crazy got fresh leased.
The cops got called at Timothy’s.
What will be the first of many…
It’s either famine, fast, or feast.
I really liked last November.
Finally got married for just a song.
We were humming some were smiling.
What will be the first of many.
Just don’t keep it up too long.
Christmas, New Years Twenty Twenty Five.
And all that happy sure will fade.
I’ve learned to harbor expectations.
In what will be the last of many.
Not all songs wrote and played.
Taking a break from writing and being every thought.
Or search for the meaning of living with this lot.
It’s November cold and blowing, sleeping in till afternoon.
I’ve been changing and arriving late howling at the moon.
I got married all this beauty. I no longer am alone.
There is something in the heavens that we can’t reach by phone.
The Doomed do not carry such burdens as the immortals.
Any moment could be our last.
This is where the beauty lives.
On this edge…
This is to be envied.
This is life.
Dennis Mantin 
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