Born to the desert,
I developed an appreciation for stoicism:
To survive on less is to survive onward more.
Oh and how I embraced my convenient truth,
To shelter myself from those prickly pears,
That always cropped up unexpectedly on the horizon,
All I had to do was curl up and wait,
And then the shadows would leave,
Freeing me to stretch my legs and collect,
Enough wherewithal to ford the next tumult.
Your sweet nothings,
Whispering across my,
Still boyish cheeks,
Draining them of color,
Leaving me parched and vulnerable,
Coaxing me from my tenuous stilts,
With the employment of that whore Wirklichkeit,
You gave me solid bricks to lay my soul on,
To feel the warmth of hearth,
Stilling a world too-long spinning.
I can’t offer you an equal exchange,
With any hopes of equity,
But I promise to rework the math until I can,
Balance your charity and entitlements.