Sunday night dream

I dreamed I was a warrior. A spec ops type. Retired and taking care of security for a vast mansion filled with antiquities. The mansion was inherited. It was mine. I was cataloging it’s contents and came across a piece that a old friend, a lover, would like to see.

It gave credence to a piece of her family’s history. It was about a man who once led a group of villages, a fighting force of ten thousand, unprecedented in the time during the rise of Carthage. He was returning from a battle to the east when he learned that Carthage had sent the majority of its forces to his home village. If they raced they may reach home and save it. But there are other cities/villages he is responsible for.

If they move now, they could occupy Carthage, then turn their sights home and remove a threat forever while expanding their might and becoming a full fledged nation state. This man chose to save the village gaining him the eternal love of his people and losing the war. In the aftermath, they save the village but between them and their aggressors is a series of ambushes and pickets.

Had they chosen to hit Carthage, they would have done so from a area not well defended because they were already out of pocket. It was designed to remove him and the force he could muster. And once Carthage had fallen they would have been able to roll up the ambushes from a direction they weren’t expecting. A defeat in detail.

Instead of that he lost three quarters of his men after saving his town. And by the time he stood outside Carthage, years later he no longer had enough men to take the city. Because Carthage won, they tell the tale of a petty king and tyrant who forced this conflict. But these artifacts and papers prove that he was a good man and simultaneously remembered as the worst general of his age and the best. He held that force together for years, and though they were ill from dysentery and flux they still followed him.

A single choice and the history of the world would have been very different. This man is supposed to be her ancestor. Her family has done well down the years and she inherited the title of Duchess. She is French. In this world the French Revolution was peaceful guided by her family.

I want to rekindle the affair, I still love her. We sit in an atrium filled with light from skylights and the sound of birds outside. We are drinking a light wine and lounging on soft leather couches across from each other. We are making small talk and it comes up that she is married. I ask was she married two years ago when we were having the affair. She says no, the marriage was recent and already she grows bored with it. The person doesn’t share her passion for history, for music, opera, and life. But it was a appropriate suitor as defined by her family.

I sense that she will divorce him. What she just described are my passions. I won’t interfere in the marriage, but I will be here for her when she chooses to make the same choice of her ancestor. Love over logic. I will research her husband and render any move he can make against her a shiny tempting poisoned apple.

I bid her farewell with the scans of the pieces and copies and translation. Kiss her on the cheek and tell her, she still has my heart, and she should come to me when she has cleaned out her house. Dream ends watching her drive away.

A common prayer for the dying

A common prayer for the dying-translated
(typically spoken on a battlefield or medical tent/area though sometimes an individual will be singled out)

All warriors are welcome (warrior is defined as those with the will to fight, whether the means be physical or mental is irrelevant)
All who sacrifice (to safeguard others, not said but understood) are welcome
All will workers are welcome

In the final moments, as the life fades, choose. Stand with us. Stand Between.

The science of a thing does not make it less

I languish waiting for the sound of your voice
For the words to travel down your spine Down lightning roads
Summon forth tamed gale moving across and through vibrating pillars shaped articulate by agile tongue past lips moving in morphic form.
To vibrate on the air and strike swiftly to my ears, into the auditory canal, shivering small hairs and reverberating eardrum, spur nerve to send signal to my brain where it interprets and hears your angelic, throaty, drinkable voice. Sends impulse down to muscled heart to beat faster and loosen the tightness gathered there in anticipation.  Limbs act to counter the inevitable pull of gravity, torsion on joints and impelled forward to the embrace.

I want… (part 2)

To top you.
To take you.
To cum in your mouth.
To feel your heat wrapped wet and hot around my throbbing cock.
My mouth on your clit.
Your orgasm.
Your tongue.
To explore every inch of your body.
To fulfill your every desire.
To touch the small of your back and summon the shivers of remembered pleasure.

You, again and again.
To introduce you to the pleasures of the flesh. From first steps to masterwork.
Your words.
Your past.
Your worries and your dreams.
You for as long as you will have me.
To be your companion, your champion, your master.
All that you are.
You, spent and content, lying in the safety of my arms.

Thoughts on love and my self.

I write poetry and stories here about love. Pretty much always. There are people who I’m romantically interested in who read my work. I wonder what they think of it. I also believe that people, not necessarily them, but I see a bit of overlap. People would think that I am fragile. Or maybe they think that because I love them, they are protecting me. I don’t require protection. I know my heart. I know my emotions. I can sit down and work through the why’s and the causes. I have coping skills. I’m a coping skill warrior monk.

Maybe they try to safeguard their heart. If so, tell me that. If I know that, and I love you, then I will make every effort to keep you from pain by my action.

Here is one of my many rules, for someone I love: I will endeavor, to the best of my ability, to safeguard your heart. Whether through my action, or by allowing harm to come by my inaction. If I fail, and it is possible, tell me. I will address the situation. Honor demands it.

How do you know if I love you? Ask. Ask me directly, not as a coworker or boss, as a person. Ask. My rules, which you probably will have heard about, obligate me. I must speak truth. So ask, “Do you love me?”.

Rhymed devolution

The actions I regret
Never remember, never forget
Drown my sympathetic heart
Hear it’s beat, hear it start

Lace my blood with poison
Sing me of your fears
Drink our sorrow, sleeping
Last dance amidst the tears

Your voice puts me on tilt
A smile that’s fit to quit
Advance the notion and wait
Drenched dream in the hands of guilt

Simple word to tongues’ phrases
Party with and then depart
But come back to waiting arms
Wait forever, want aloud

To take, to dream, to learn, to see
And bound, and bound, and bound
Break, snap, twice cooked sand
Drink me, eat me, love me.


I had an interesting dream. It was just me and a bunch of acquaintances and friends rolling around a city in the midnight hour. We were rolling twenty deep.

My friend ‘3’, invited us to a boxing match. Where she would be boxing. That is what they called it. When we arrived, we got drinks. I got a whiskey sour (Jack). We are standing around waiting for the match and out comes 3.

She is announced as one of the boxers and she runs/skips over to someone out of the corner of my eye. She kisses this leather chick passionately and the crowd applauds. Not because it’s 2 women kissing but because passion should be celebrated.

They bring out the other boxer and they say that 3 and this woman met in a chat room on fetlife called Three strands of Leather. (oddly specific for a dream, especially since it is not a forum/room I’m familiar with). Then this boxing match becomes some very light flogging, and general fetish play.

Almost a peice of performance art rather than in earnest. At one point I am sitting on a couch, with my shoes off in this seedy venue and the other woman sits down and pushes her back to my socked feet. She presses against them as 3 floggs her breasts with this small three inch strand black leather flogger. I liked that but was generally unimpressed with the display.

It seemed to take one of my passions and belittle it. I wanted to take over, take control but instead I settled for being a jaded audience member. Then it was over and two furries took the floor. One dressed in a cow costume and one dressed as a silver fox. The fox mounted the cow. It was a thing but the dream lost focus and I went back to a more standard, can’t find my phone, I’m looking for it everywhere thing.


why these steps into uncertain future to know another,

to know their mind to be afraid not of your actions but of theirs, or by your inaction due to uncertainty, you false step can you false step,

It’s like wearing thick socks and stepping on broken glass.

You hope that the minimal precaution you have taken will allow you to come away, as free from cuts as possible.

But how can you know. Just the slow step, then another, and another. The small cuts, the shredded cloth.

It has seldom been my actions that make me afraid, it is always the uncertain horizon. The actions of others.

My hope, in all its falseness, leads me forward.

Caution allows you to retain gains, but risk allows you to advance those gains.

Life is the balancing act between the two.

So my resolve is to act, small steps.

To breathe and reap the storm.

Angel is another word for slave

Oh hark, comes an angel
Her wings are tattered from her fall
She moves with hidden grace
Her voice that once trumpeted clarion call “To arms! To arms!”

He comes alone
all fail and fell
Wearing a cloak of night
His voice, the storm
Speaks words not meant for mortal tongue and burst the gates of heaven

He’s here, he’s here
the choirs whisper, filling the streets
But no orders given, though air still rings with her call

“I come. I come with warning.
I come to tell you of your fate.
You who cower now
We come. We come.
We will not tolerate.
Your brimstone hells, your fiery scourge,
your serenity, your rest.
Stay behind your walls.
Stay out of the affairs of mortal realms or face the Armageddon you promised in glee.
But this time with other enemy.
No choreography, no fated win.
Just armies at the ready. Tired of your fearful dance.”

The angel at the gates. All dutifully reports, this dire pronunciation. And suffers fate of all messengers.

She falls, she falls.

Oh hark, comes an angel
Her wings are tattered from her fall
She moves with hidden grace
Her voice that once trumpeted clarion call

And he who offered warning dire
Now, offers choice where once was none.

“I apologize for your treatment. I apologize for the need. If you so desire, you may follow me. We have no shining cities. We have no trumpets sound. We can only offer purpose. We can only offer strife. But stand with us and our backs will never turn. We are bound by honor, bound by purpose, bound by truth. Our generals fight by our side and safeguard humanity’s hope. With us you may choose.”