Sunday, February 17, 2013
Why is the pain always yours -
but never mine? I suppose, because I know too much to
wallow. I'll own my share
but I don't hoard, and I'm not accepting this new variety
you heap - or hoist. I've lived a trilogy, not a tragedy and I'm plotting nothing and this is
not my battle. In fact,
today, the wind carries
I've learned to apprehend its coming. I feel
the rain in my gut,
and the air warns of strain, and I'm not restless, and I can't lead the way.
I'm not persuading, and there is no path. I just know
when to take
I won't debate or writhe, prey in terror and in wait.
I'm tall, delaminated, back erect, leaving ruins,
and the only thing I wonder is how or why I'm here
again, this place so familiar.
But now, I have reserve of
and I don't pine prostration.
My naked heart won't betray me.
What you don't know
is what I know,
and there's a scent I
I'm weaving out, past piles
of cursed pity, and willows cackling as they weep. One pilgrimage I make, where there are promises of sanity.
The candlelight almost got me, the shadows making faces, fooling.
is not a transfer.
Watch me, now, each step, as each trick scurries, hiding.
know better. Swept once under the carpet, for a
they best return.
I'm not in the house keeping
my home's a mess.
So, here's the door. I'm exiting. My help is not
so, keep your lack and I'll keep mine.
I bit it
but I'm spitting out.
cater any longer to imaginary grace.
I've held the root that
The Sunday Whirl