[These] mar[r]y Poppins fine, 21st century style / Happy man of see!

I know this person, who loves me for some reason;

and she is stratospherically good at what 

she stratospherically does.

And when I am in her presents

(for her presence

is a gift),

I feel I am 

capable of living life 

so positive and true.

And that’s what I want 

to feel

the rest of my life: to be around

people unafraid of my desire and need 

and want and haunt,

on occasions perhaps really gaunt, 

to live a lonely existence,

to live by myself,

and yet for them to treasure, even so,

at moments I am gold, no longer

old,

my being, when seeing how time it is to be together

in love and soul and heartfelt

intelligences:

not the idiocy of romantic attachments

but the respect of fine and adult admiration.

And so she for me

is mar[r]y Poppins fine, 

21st century style.

She brings as one

the accuracy of perspicacity 

with the humanity of having 

suffered the brutalities of life’s unkindnesses.

And yet she chooses happiness over and over again,

over the 

miseries I sometimes – nay!  Often – decant.

And yet my life has never been so rich 

as then,

and when, and wending 

and tending dutifully, and even lovingly in 

certain things and ways –

yes here, even here, lovingly does happen,

though certain expression 

does press us distantly one –

and so there is something about 

her wonderful certainties 

that, actually,

I have never met before.

And so multiply up this wonderful woman’s qualities 

to the others I have recent met, and begotten of

grand improvements: internal and wonderful

and curious and unmet.

And so to the beauty within 

all these women of my life: no longer a strife to be,

but a simple part of my more, and core,

and lore and rhymes and strident harmonies,

and occasionally my tears, 

as in rip me apart,

and occasionally my tears, 

as in lick me better, do.

And so peace does approach, and the most I can hurt 

is now well behind

the we and you and mine.

Times clearly out, rounded down, and 

no longer the crown 

of roses bethorned

and torn from our hearts and arts.

So thank you, dearest women: 

thank you for all your wisdoms.

Thank you for caring enough to even consider  

releasing me thus

from the hell I was in.

And when they write my epitaph,

let it include your beautiful names: all of yous, please, 

who have chosen to succour –

show your fabulous faces (and maybe laces 

one day, too).

And then allow me to show no trace of 

badness back.

Just allow me to be the 

happy man of always see!

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