The Tragic Savant

“It” embraces “togetherness” Like blemished mascara on a retired call girl “It” would speak in aggressive audible banter, As if crystallized bullhorns were Strapped Onto unwelcome seating arrangements No boundaries. No consideration. No apologies. Yet, their measurement of pride Coagulates into withered centimeters While seducing unscented tulips With impoverished protractors And tattered encyclopedias An unsatisfied square root with no common denominators, Lacking No (re)solutions. Does “it” see colors when they build a façade of deteriorating vowels? Or is their blood alcohol level tested By walking on borrowed heels And pickup lines made of disappearing ink, Purchased in bulk Could they realign high hopes while riding on constipated high horses? Hoping to veer towards whimsical sunsets, With silver medal’s soul mate, Drinking from another cracked bowl of pretentious vapors Feeble attempts to take the hand of any “available” heartbeat, Hoping they can slow dance to their newly, hand-written “Woe is me” Polka ballad Another baby put in the corner Another bounced reality check Another hunt for rebounded bliss within conceptual kiss No hope -> Know hope No love -> Know love No better -> Know better An educated tragedy is their only flirtatious lyric. ©Drake J. Eszes