Emancipation

I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
chucked about with nearly careless ease,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
to any fool who offers up his heart,
trusting like a lemming the old disproven notion
that every man must have a missing half.

I think I’ll just delight in moonlit walks and sunsets,
the playing of the wind in bamboo reeds.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
the momentary love, the counterfeit devotion
that lures a man into a sense of calm,
trusting like a lemming the old disproven notion.

I suppose I’ll just enjoy my own good company
instead of putting up with all the grief,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
with every promise planted with a kiss,
with every tender touch and every supple motion
that lures a man into a sense of calm.

I find I much prefer my solitary freedom
to walking over eggshells field by field.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers
and all the broad assortment, weapons of emotion
balanced on the fingertips of love
with every tender touch and every supple motion.

I imagine days are smoother without the crazy weather
that comes with intimate affinity,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
the sorry sap who seeks a loyal lover,
deluded by the dream of a lifelong soul connection
balanced on the fingertips of love.

I reckon now it’s time to meditate on vapors
rising from the stream of life, and breathe.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
as lightly as they offer their affection
to any fool who offers up his heart,
deluded by the dream of a lifelong soul connection,
that every man must have a missing half.