He is sprawled helpless, whelmed beyond measure
Here on the field of fetid cotton sheets.
He ponders: was it love? Convenience?
Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter.
Pain and joy both syncopate his heartbeats.
The difference, he reckoned was patience.

And there was an endless supply. Patience
That days and distance can’t seem to measure.
But he can’t help from counting the heartbeats
That always hasten when rain drops in sheets.
Pretense and a hand offers convenience,
Stalls him for a while in viscuous matter.

Habit later becomes inconvenience,
Question marks hover testing his patience
Every gap in time begins to matter,
The treasure of pleasure failed to measure
Up to the emptiness between his sheets.
A drone instead of musical heartbeats.

What good is a heart when one’s own heart beats
For nothing? Certainly no convenience
Can expunge forever the empty sheets
Of his love story. Understand, patience
Has betrayed him of wealth without measure.
Abandoning the heart for gray matter.

He asks himself, “what the hell’s the matter?”
The mind cannot pulse as the quick heart beats.
Feelings make thoughts difficult to measure–
They refuse to settle for convenience.
The heart will destroy the walls of patience
What it seeks lies beyond these cotton sheets.

He takes a torch under the wretched sheets
The healing flames make nothing else matter
Flames of the arson put death to patience,
Music, at last, is heard in his heartbeats
The cotton mistakes and inconvenience
Have found their end in overdue measure.

He has left patience in the ashen sheets,
Figured that measure should not so matter.
Summoning heartbeats defies convenience.

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