In the gloomy iron of winter
I can contemplate my sins
In silence, wondering if
A salve exists for a heart
Disassembled and mended
With stitches from a needle dulled

Infection’s bound to set in
And scars from all the old wounds
May tear anew. This is the price to
Pay for going back to the surgeon
And asking, way too late, if
I can have a second opinion.

I’ve decided
Love is not mine to ruminate;
I shrug off losses like
Matches on the handball court.
Another good game, blood and sweat
Spilled in copious amounts, the effort
Meaning more than the final score

So be it. But if we make it just another joust
Eventually the lance that splits us asunder
Will have no name, our suffering no roots,
Our exhaustion and expiration no meaning
We can translate into words.

Frankly, I am tired of
The energy spent in revisits to
The womb and tomb to seek answers
To questions to which there never was
A sane reply.

I loved. So be that, too. I was loved in return
Yet too indifferent to the grief
I caused to see there was a connection
Between my wounded heart and those
I shattered with my disdainful sword.

And therein lies the measure of
An idealist savaged. Burning others to a crisp,
While still afraid of fire. Jaded to a fault,
Making mock of all the losers, but
Scared as hell he may never love again.

12/22/2014

Posted on 12/22/2014
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