As I Squander
told, I’m …
purveyor of a pen
drowning in the anguish of the heart …
bulletin:
love - not always love
love - always pain
always -
all ways …
wherever, whatever, WHOever the
soul divides for,
consumed, one day …
lost to time’s bitter casualty -
forever’s coda,
postscript of existentialist id …
not an iota
escapes the darkest of fates
ALL is impermanent
and sorrow, the outcome …
in contention, then -
pray, how moans the sea
if not broken on a reef?
how chants a catbird
if not mourning for its mate?
how drinks the earth
without heaven’s weep?
and how bright a sun, if not immersed in
the bitter, unforgiving black of space?
please fear not, that ache -
those throes of casualty are but
the ripples of passing on love’s expanse -
those prayerful pangs,
the precious payment for
life’s dearest …
so, if that blessed abyss be
the stead of my demise,
embrace it, I shall …
and if those briny beads of the
eye are the only coursing for my ink,
so be it …
there are far more poisonous
potions to waste words …
upon.
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