by Lauren Singer
If you are not running to keep up,
the darkness comes. The reminder that
time is valueless, that memory runs on depletion,
that going forward is actually an illusion,
that we are ending where we start,
but the blank canvas remains so deceptively filled
that there is no fresh beginning. We just say that.
Nice words to echo off the crystal.
And maybe all those signs and superstitions
means there's something more to cling to,
but as each year is routinely spat out by another
I forget to enjoy the seconds. Here I am,
staring at the Christmas tree, its waning light
all pure and glow but what is a season to another death?
What is fresh and new to the finite ending?
What matters of decorum? Celebration? Joy?
We could all just say how we feel.
Something about persistence, or giving up.
A hopeless pit in the acid-tug guts that
we are all still desperately alone.
Yet we still make turkey and align marshmallows on the
sweet potato pie because it will taste good.
But what is taste when everything is swallowed whole
and no one can remember what it even felt like to savor?
And maybe it's just me.
Maybe you're all enjoying yourselves at the
Home Goods store, buying mantel hooks and
artificial wreathes while I huff the scented candles
and mourn myself for being here and knowing
it's for nothing.
Posted on 11/08/2017
Copyright © 2019 Lauren Singer
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Rob Littler on 11/17/17 at 07:00 AM|
...well, nothing can be pretty special, in its own right, eh? The glory of nothingness--it is the starkness of the tone of this piece and the appeal of the lament making it all collide in the conundrum, comfortablly.
|Posted by Laura Doom on 11/21/17 at 08:20 PM|
Yes, well, aside from the crystal. It's a relentless exodus with no reconcilliation at the ultimate anticlimax.