like the aftermath of a motor accident,
I replay my actions.
“If I hadn’t...”
“Perhaps I should have...”
“Why did I do...”
“What could I have...”
Trying to heal,
the child inside, fumbling the emotional Lego,
acting in haste?
The lessons are salutary
when conducting open-heart surgery.
Do you value what and who you are so little
that you suspect my powers of discernment?
I promised no harvest
but was hopeful of the seed.
You reclaim the farm
now that my intuition is drought-broken,
foreclose on my feelings
it steals my breath away.
Not so stupid I can’t feel the Judas kiss
at the foot of my stairs.
Red wine served on Death Row,
the condemned allowed one last breathtaking vista
before you throw that switch.
I don’t feel “awesome” when the flick comes.
Perhaps you are right about the spark.
Perhaps it springs fully-formed into life
and cannot grow like fire
coaxed and blown by a caring tender.
not patient application
more becomes the 90s.
Logic is on your side
when you call in your markers
so I try to leave with dignity intact,
adopting an aloof masque
to hide the shabby, threadbare heart
of a gambler
bankrupt of hope.
Haven't we all had one of these? If you haven't consider yourself lucky. Enough said.