The Awkwardness Of it All
I'm just getting started, though I'm not in control,
But I am all dressed and indubitably, very well-composed,
virtuously loved by many, with honored adulation exposed,
so I lie and wait, but ready to go, anew, in my dapper clothes.
A broken watch on a floor, as time ticks onwards as before,
A kiss that's giving--believing, a kiss that's receiving--deceiving,
The moon coasts to attuned hearts that are squabbling on a lane,
Stars twinkle to sparkled wishes pouring from tear ducts of the hopeless,
Night waves surge, tickling the traipsing shoeless of the fully-clothed.
Baby falls to ahhs!--cries--carried, cuddled to coos,
Then wide-eyed to wonders of weird faces of two adult fools,
A writer's measure can be the length of a Tolstoy novel or the brevity of a Haiku,
Mata Hari can read her victims like a book, while Cassanova can undress pages with his looks,
The blessed and the bliss read scriptures from this,
While Cain to the cursed cast spells and do their worst,
From the sublime to the lowly, to the noteworthy and the ordinary,
From Titanic's affluent first-class to her destitute in steerage,
One day we will stand equals, titless bearing none other,
The Book Of Life is read, there stands, once a king next to a pauper.
2019 September 13
Copyright © William Kekaula | Year Posted 2019