he taunts me in a turnstile of sails
I had him (what he would give of himself)
            moan   the loss
bemoan           the loss of way

he had me helpless, undefended
without a drop of blood—he took me
he knew           he knew me

he did not wish me to leave
yet—unenlightened—sword sheathed
stunted by childhood perversion
bested too by man—he could not grow

and so, moan  the loss
be        moan

decades of coveting, covering,
coddling           yes coddling  
smothering      keeping
in the keep of he just below
the boiling point
of I

he taunts me still        though free of him
            for  freedom     a torn gift
a shredded sail            ripped from an unformed
heart                              a ghostly windmill

in the roil of I
where the Knight of the White Moon rides
Quixote will ever be

Zetetic separator

Debbie lives in Connecticut. She says she writes because she has to write; her thoughts swirl. Since she despises clutter; writing helps her vent. She’d love to change the world with words and tries. Her degree was in fine arts and recently has combined written & visual art in Nonce poetry. Robert Heinlein and his book, Stranger in a Strange Land, was the first author to inspire her. His concept of empathic understanding grokking is a cornerstone of her life. She uses this skill to heal. Her first draft is written in stream of consciousness. She lets content determine the form.

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