Melange

To hold another close Only to leave soon, Singing a tune of grief. To matter to another Only to be disregarded, Spitefully led to mist. Somewhere along the journey, Spiraling affections Sneak past the moth-bitten screen, Draping old passions, hiding Corrosive familiarity. Attuned and honest to each other’s fault, Forgets previous passionate immersions festering Illusion of intimacy.

Like a potted plant Life emerges secure, Taken too seriously, life Seems affected, Stifling, incapable of rising. It falls then on one, To weed out stray thoughts And prune the unformed. The lure of life escapes none Triviality of which Is clear, at thought of firm demise. It falls then on one, To move with shifty time That erases the stinging pain, Mounting, at the felt absence of life. Grounded in values, yet Elaborate rites seem Tiresome, forcing out, yet again Placid memories elapsed. Tender years, Monstrous roots, Upturns and climaxes Shattering the pot, Leaving pieces of frailty within grasp.

Noon Shadow fear, the passing Miles that play tango with stricken expressions; Jugular grasps and lamenting veins flutter At what might have been. To the lowest bidder forsaken, Betrayed for being loyal. Daggers enter sharp through my back, twisting all that I knew. Gashed thoughts, no pain it only aches Everybody’s trusted ferret.

It is nice to be certain, In a sense to be in the right; its essence Fills out off you. I have since felt all around, I would Of things that are certain. It jolts me – growing simple and obvious The lapse of seasons, Memory’s stronghold, The bark of leaves at being swept away in haste, Provoke changes. Tired, I refuse to turn at the Tapping feet’s rhythm, At grand canonical expressions, From those significant flappings of hibernation, Of nature’s monopoly, uncertain I curl.