poetry

triage

It ain’t art to love; it’s mostly artless...


Fate fell,
    Cracked her head
          On the marble
Of my misadventures;
                    I’ve nursed her since.
  I wince to tell of all the
Unstrung overtures,
  The preambles,
      Precursors
            To happiness I’ve
          Watched become
Her banana peel.
          Too real the regret;
      Bereft of breath,
I lay beneath the true heft
          Of wonder I’ve left behind,
    Simply because that’s where
                It had to be—
                      Crushingly far from me.
          I didn’t usually choose it,
    And that hurt grinds
A cavernous cavity
          In the heart.
  It’s no art to love;
      It’s mostly artless:
Stick-horse-free and reckless-green,
    Imagination ripping at the seams,
      Or all that greasily gleams on a
  Foreign, storm-slick, first-kiss street.
It teems with an uncertainty
          That’s somehow safe;
    But not.
          Soul-stilting;
    But trip-foot-fraught.
          Fresh-feathered and flightful;
    But what-Icarus-forgot.
            As an idiot dances,
      I’ve dared my chances;
That stitch and knot on tomorrow’s brow
            Shows just how butterfly-but-bee
    Romance is—or has been to me.
Should’ve warned her away somehow;
      Yet, what would Lady Fate
          Do with a flashing flag
        She knew I’d fly,
    But fall hard anyway
  For me,
That I might come pray,
    Bedside-dashing,
          By my wounded why on trembling knee.


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Monolith
        https://windstrewn.com/2019/07/09/monolith/


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