Oh! the world is a vulgar place
where the words for beauty
are matched with calamities
of tongue , coarse and unloved.
So we sigh and
watch the flowers die
a day at a time,
petals curled and brown,
pistel and stamen
bowing to the table,
hanging from the vase
like dry tongues
swollen in thirsty gasps.
We raise our glass
to the new born babe
damp and mewling
the same experimental complaints,
we remain in awe
and transported wonder
and give ourselves to regrets
that the tears go by too fast,
too soon our own
words will indict
us for each pipe dream
and in seam
come undone.
Ahhh...we will
lurk longer
at the lake and
stare into the water
after we’ve skipped a stone
and toss off a cigarette,
relieved the lines
in the face looking back
aren’t ours just yet.
There is only enough time
to invent all these phrases
that sustain themselves
and contain mystery
that arises the harder we
squint for a clearer view
of the lines of our face,
our faces are terrains
of over explored expectations,
the lines are the ravines
where the certain futures fell,
hands,arms, legs
tremble, ache, drag along the walk way,
each step gets a caress
from a shoe heel that could not be lifted
high enough against the minor gravity.
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