the orchestra began
a forest idyll mocking
the morning dance
of the nymphs.
The darkness of the
auditorium
misplaced the meaning
of the aria,
a courteous capital no
has been the tides mantra
gifting junk by junk
an incremental tenant
at some point
the pressure of the universe
splits an atom and an isotope
reveals
that mercy is no riddle
to the faint hearted
- that cradle
has an allowance for variance
tonight I had the oft moment
to look into who I used to be
I declined, not for the pain,
yet,
the child has grown
and I finally have become
that which I think I’ll be,
youth gets lost, too lost to
be found.
the bludgeoning of motor-skills
becomes the ultimate enemy
what is lost is gone, what is
gone
never wished to stay,
it is okay now to remain who
I am
at some point, it has made no
difference,
adolescence is grim,
I meant for it to be – better
than it was;
which seems to be my excuse
for
everyday that has passed
since.
I’ve fought so hard to gain
control
that ultimately that which I
wished for
fleetingly abandoned me
and even for a time, I didn’t believe
I’d ever get this far
G-d has done me some favors
and now I ask, what do I do
in return?
I await an answer,
all I ask is will you wait
for me
to finally get it right?
will you forgive me if I do?
its been 28 years since the
bomb
went off, 28 years of
grieving and searching
the missing pieces to just
say
- ‘tis
done! The myth has settled
a man learned, a father wise,
a husband realized.
I’m sorry for my failures
that is
no doubt, I’m sorry for the
pain
I had. I wish I could have
given it to the ghost sooner.
Dying and living is a subtle
charm
and you do it all alone
I’ll miss you – great pain
and lonesome muse
but do you need me anyway?
if you do, then stick around
I’ll surely be your friend.
a memory a last: when I
listen to
Girl From the North Country – I remember a
sweet dream, walking the
winter streets
of Princeton
– friendless – but exhilarated
by the opportunity that
was in front of me
I had the tape in my car and
I’d
go to this bookstore to
browse
and wouldn’t buy a thing –
too poor –
and later be drunk walking
Nassau
and staring into the window
and singing the song to the
reflection
in the window & the girls
walking by
to chuckle – that – that is
the you I
miss now – not the dying desperate
lovelorn fool of unrequited
faith –
the boy I
mentioned was damaged
but good and would have done
anything for you – he was the poet – 19!
he was the man I’ve become!
somewhere slowly
somewhere holy
somewhere waiting
-
just missing.
© 2013 woundedlordliterature
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