poetry

throwback: 2002: fata morgana

And I come back to it less than more, too-sure of it, still-needing...

        She less-than-knew me,
    Truly;
          Who I was in the cold
  Or who I,
      By a rarer warmth amidst it,
              Wished to be:
    She was deaf
      To a story untold;
Dismissed it,
      Chained to an old
            And rasping melody.
                                  Her malady
        As much mine
Half-curtainly;
          But I loved
                Her too certainly to see it.
      So be it:
          As blooms vine-vanquished,
    Anxiously spillt as overnight wine,
          Time escapes us,
                Time trips and scrapes us—
  As do chances,
    Glances with apology,
                  And love.
          With careful glove do I turn
  Such brittle, acid-leached pages,
      The burn of age
                At their dog-eared edges,
        Creeping open my catacomb of hows
And vacated pledges,
                All the sacred cows
    Of a heart’s
            Slow-emotioned,
  Photo-collaged miscarriages—
        ‘Tis a corkscrew
            Impiercing me to perceive
    Love’s as worthless a treaty
                                  As any war!
But, by grace, that feeling’s fleeting,
        And I come back to it less than more,
              Too-sure of it, still-needing:
      Peace is, if weepingly,
                                        Worth it,
      Though digging’s as hard to unearth it
As soiling it is easy.
                O, but Sol traces the silhouette
       Of a blushing serendipity—
    And a blind-white tent
                    In the desert,
      By a someday-lake lapping torridly?
          While the grey pays later the rent
    On the when, why and way
                    She was,
      For just a moment, meant
  To go along and astray
                                With me.


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Mundane Cataclysms
        https://windstrewn.com/2019/10/18/mundane-cataclysms/

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