Perhaps she would have been a
Momentary muse: inspiration made flesh,
Bursting into my younger life like a grenade,
Like an incendiary to my heart;
Flesh made into melodramatic words, destined to be
No more memorable than her soon forgotten face.

Today, though, that is a part of me that looks
But does not see. My muses now are
Shards of glass that I cannot pull from my heart;
Growing up, it seems, is the shift of focus
From present to past.

(This seems to be the one way in which I am
In time with the world. How ironic.)

She did not move me, so perhaps I am
Made of stone, petrified by the seemingly
Endless flow of lava. Perhaps that is why
My feet feel heavy when I lift them.

My hands are heavy too; I no longer
Fling poetry at the unsuspecting,
The ungrateful, the souls that turn out
Not to need it, not to need me, after all.
Add that to the list of things I grew out of
When I grew up too much after all.

It feels almost like blessed relief
That I do not get to disappoint anyone
Now; like it is right that I am no longer
Recognised and can finally leave it all behind.

Perhaps I will allow myself one last
Longing look as I leave, just for
Old times’ sake, as if it reconnects me
With my youth in some way and makes
My adulthood acceptable after all.

11/19/2015

Posted on 01/24/2016
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince