Caution.

The Saturday night encounters and the same
worn out disposition.
Between the two we live and die
pinning our bitterness to the tails of passing laymen.

I wanted – what was it – that I wanted
I appear not to recall:
Outside the mechanism to be happy
to come and go
as if, I had imagined myself in the clarity of light
like the tiptoeing of the child who sneaks its way at night.

My surety back then came dressed with conviction
given eagerly within the density of life.
You had me once in the clasp of your hands
nestled like the dormouse sleeping its winter retreat
shedding my shadow, towards the downward slope of reason.

Now falls midsummer, when all fools are slaughtered
the time when shapes disguise their mutilated belief.
Leaving nothing
outside the words of caution – they that came,  all a  little  too late.

 

Poppy April 13th 2014 ~xx~

 

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