by Richard Vince
The curve moves the other way now.
Our asymptotes gradually part from
Almost touching distance to head for
Opposite corners of a vast wilderness.
This has always been my solace;
My refuge from undesirable realities.
In converting them to florid words
I gave them a passable resemblance
To fiction. Yet again, I find myself
Wishing that real life had not gone
In this direction, and so I write.
To call it inspiration would be to
Lend it an air of respectability,
And of desirability, and of artistry
That it does not merit. With her, it was
Always about mere survival.
She drew so many words from me:
Like moths, they danced from
My darkness to her mesmerising light
As I struggled to cope with
How I felt. Little did I know that,
Instead of breathless awe and
Frustrated desire, I would need
To express loss and regret.
It is bewildering to feel bereft
Of something that was never there,
But I mourn what could have been
More than what increasingly
I doubt was really there.
I never wanted to be a
Bad memory, but it seems to be
All I am good for; at least it means
That, to her, I am something.
Posted on 05/21/2013
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by George Hoerner on 05/21/13 at 10:16 PM|
Sometimes it seems we a drawn to an other who se see in a certain light. We a drawn to the light as a moth is drawn to a flame. Who gets burned and parishes seems to be matter of who gets just close enough to be singed but not destroyed. Very nice write.