by Lacey Smith
By the fourty-eighth play I knew
it was too late to call.
I didn't like the look of you at all, I thought
perhaps I could trick myself into it
but no, this time I was as so certain as
I sat, sleepless as smoke
I wonder if this is some kind of delerium
you wished upon me in the worst of your
good dreams, the wicked characterization
of your features a mere blur of incorrect
assumptions and hopes, always in some
kind of black and red.
By then I knew that I could not wait a
second's longer to weep but the
simultaneous press of words kept me from
such a sweet release. I just listened more,
articulating what would not come.
I know well the turn of your lips, your eyes
passing even now, reading this, glazing over
in the inhumanity of such a silly exploration.
I do not care, I know there are others far better
for the task, dizzying tremors waiting to be had
when the time is right.
And the music may be too loud because I cannot
hear you anymore, the lure of words that passed
over the line of your rhetoric, bleeding against me
in some spellbinding choke of fury, the way you
look tired and weary, the eerie sense of the way you
gazed so far away.
Knowing well there are other points to ponder,
inconsistencies so open to experimentation
I could press them into boxes, stack them like
bones with tiny handwritten labels, think more of
them than I do you. There is a time for that and it
has not passed.
Sitting sleepless, fifty-four presses on in an
ambiguous entirety with no time at all to call
or write, I think I may be tricking myself in
the knowledge of your words, the tired beating
of a heart that is slowly filling once again with
all of this smoke.
Author's Note: Enhanced partially by the band "Kings of Convenience", a not so great poem about a rather immense emotion. I post it more for my own archival means, emotions I need to remember, you know?
Posted on 12/06/2005
Copyright © 2021 Lacey Smith