Self Love

Unless you are Walt Whitman
Self love is an unpoetic affront
To requisite angular angst
Love’s labor lost and found
Diffident dads and morose moms
God’s predicted periodic absence
Melancholic miasmas mirror
Solicits servile solitude
A whirling dance of doubt
Perhaps Emily’s quirky grace
Of musical vowels and consonants
The only certainty in mystery
Allah waits to be discovered
Promises to take us back
Yahweh’s dutiful life after death
Forever lost in the glory of God
Buddha’s meditative moment
Requires you to forgive yourself