by Richard Vince
Perhaps that was the moment
When I stopped being able to tell her
Everything. Or maybe it was such
A gradual decline that there was
No such point; the slow decay
Of an unstable isotope concealed
By all that surrounded it.
(The combination of beautiful voices
And ugly words I have long found
Beguiling; perhaps that applied to
More than just songs.)
It was a lovely evening, despite
Heat, and tiredness, and awkwardness.
With her, I felt instantly at home:
Too comfortable for my treacherous heart,
Which flooded my mind with visions
Of where I could escape the unhappiness
To which I dared not admit.
(She was subconsciously searching too:
Looking for a new life with
An old friend who never came back;
Finding that home was no longer home.)
When I try to find the peak
From which we began our descent, I am
Spoilt for choice: is it really possible
That it was all downhill, that
The good days were merely those
That were less like hell?
(Perhaps we connected because we were
Stranded in the same wilderness:
Prisoners of promises that could
Never deliver, unaware that, in
Finding our groove, we had dug a rut.)
Now I understand how something
Stressful and tiring can be a rest;
How climbing even an imagined hill
Can change perspective, even if seen
From closed eyes.
Posted on 04/19/2018
Copyright © 2018 Richard Vince