Sunday, July 24, 2016

Opus X

Turned intricately down.
Hinging jaw,
Running with wolves
A capability- refined.

Where, the use
Of diligent expenditures?
Indistinct.. Just within reach
Of detectable,

Lucid huddle
Of grass and red blankets.
Finagling shoe-straps
And piercing sunlight
Preparations- defunct
Orderly nothingness.

Orders on paper
Write to hide, the right
To say nothing, the right
Reveal nothing, to write
In exchange
For-  more nothing.

Opus X
Preamble to 'almost'
My 'almost' something
My 'almost' nothing
My unsavory masterpiece
Of perfected seclusion.

The 'X' in this case
Is red.
A brand, a burn, a scar
Turning tricks out of tricks
Filling the void with-

The rapture of the melancholy
Is the ode to the nature of their ground.
Standing hard to the laurels of morals
Despite the pilfered loss.
Deep regret, swapped in lieu
Of stalwart responsibility.

Worth the trade?
Ask me again when the deepest of wrinkles have set in
And Grandchildren come a calling for cookies and milk...
Tugging from a hemline sown in love.
I strongly suspect, the answer will be,
A "Yes".

No comments:

Post a Comment