Poem By Robert L. Bixler III
Three women fight over my heart,
Holding me bound to their desire.
The quarrel stagnates without start
As the sirens enlighten the liar.
My first lady of loathsome,
Denies me tempered rest.
She smiles at me with blithesome,
As she engulfs me in her darksome.
She loves me most at night’s crest
Overwhelming me in starry-eyed jest.
She is my abhorred night buyer.
As day’s light glistens golden,
My solitary bed remains cold
As the war retains me holden;
The prize that can’t be unsold.
My second lady of lust,
Asks I love her beyond conscious.
To her I, with weariness entrust,
As my eyes fill with darkness’ earnest.
Her immovable love seen callous,
Is remembered on me as slight coyness.
She is longing passion made shyer.
As the war between my ladies,
Loathsome and lust, ever endures,
My weary, weakened aeries
Sinks, separates and obscures.
My final lady of definity,
Knows that her love, I shall not deny,
Is that of final, cold supremacy
And draws me, believer, to divinity.
Her love turns me rigid without sigh
As her embrace brings eternity nigh.
She is water as understood by fire.
This war has, my soul, tarried
As I await an angel to bid.
For when I’m finally quarried
She can caress this war undid.
She can truer this weary trier
As I contemplate the slier:
To never sleep with intimacy
-Or- To sleep never with affinity.