You have been a constant, the charming warrior

championing a truth few want to see.

You have been at my side fair lady, causing a stir

in a heavenly pursuit which holds my heart in chains, locked with no key.

My dearest reason for living with nothing of monetary value,

for the price I paid in understanding your form, your beauty

in debt and indebted, in truth I have taken from you on cue

and the life I have led reflecting the sweet taste of irony.

Yet the price I have paid is one of solitary confinement,

the prisoner in gleaming irons, the shabby captive I have become,

the one who feels at unease when you are not there

and for conversation is an ideal unspent.

The language between us is one way, stunted, unwary and then some

for all I do is look at your form as I hold you, and in return, you only stare.

Ian D. Hall