No insanity, this
Parsing of emotions;
This cutting into slices
How I feel and what
I want. It is the province
Of many to hide their
Feelings behind ivy-covered
Walls. To lose themselves
In books by quiet streams.
To contemplate again
The irony of desire
When it collides
With the reality
Of another’s life gone
In directions it did not
Contemplate but could not
Prevent.

Ah, the perfidious Hamlet.
A mind fraught with
Myriad possibilities
And the stunning
Inability to act on
Any impulse lest it
Be thought that
Mind unhinged.

What buttons a man to his
Fears? What prevents
A man from saying
His love out loud
And damning the consequences
Knowing such words may fall
On unhearing ears, or at
Least those not prepared
To listen.

But isn’t that far better
Than not saying the words at all
And them never being heard
So all the pondering and the loss
Is on the silent speaker, and not
At least fruit for his lover’s
Contemplation?

Ah, Hamlet: what your
Hand-wringing has wrought
To generations and poets
Since. For sure, it has become
The major theme of at least
One man’s autobiography.

And I write it now.

08/31/2011

Posted on 08/31/2011
Copyright © 2024 Ken Harnisch