poetry

second stone

Distant, maybe lost, or at unrest, at least...

  I’ve been accused
      Of aloofness,

    Deep grey in the way
Of my lone-wolfness:

  Distant, maybe lost,
      Or at unrest, at least;

    Too-heart-crossed,
At a witch-trial’s very best;

  Angry, even,
      As has been the beast

    Of inordinately many
Malformed misfortunes—

  Dirt-disenchanted,
      Reaching for but the choice,

    The right-to-love-roofless—
Still just salt for the urchins.

  A few’ve recanted,
      As they’ve found me unlost:

    A faithful friend,
And as staid as stone.

  Others’ve left me
      At accursed-cost:

    Cold, alone,
Abandoned to their own myiasis,

  When what’s truly ice
      ‘Midst their impenetrable frost—

    And so-chillingly,
Unapproachably ruthless—

  Is how unclimbably high
      And mistook-him-mossed

    Their jury-box
Of sacked ivory surely is.


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Wasn’t That Fun?
        https://windstrewn.com/2020/07/27/wasnt-that-heart-whisk-fun/


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