A piece of me has broken off like floe,
floating down Styx—leaving a void in my sides—
exposing my beard of stability. I am now weak, bearded
by realists opposed to and estranged from my optimistic pole.

The look of warmth you/I once espoused is frozen,
perhaps caught in your throat, or the throat
of the boy you lap tongues with. You’re huddling
yourself--denying me--deceiving me--disturbing my rest

as my optimism prevails amongst the long drift of silence
while the distance eclipses the yearning we shared here.
Your myopic understanding leaves me bare—I stare
at our photo where you stare back: I won’t turn my back

against this obstacle in the road. I am the south—
defeated once, I will rise again. As I’m left at this point
of mediocrity between your London life and these hot, stifling winds
once cooled by your disarming smile—I am discovering

that time determines all. And as I fell asleep last night, in a bed
as cold as the words you used,
I realized that an end is not an end at all, but rather a test, with that end
depleting my morale, withering me to ashes,
-------and like the Phoenix, I rise to a new land.

02/03/2005

Posted on 02/04/2005
Copyright © 2024 S. Pelham Flood