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
Copyright © Poet Tacito | Year Posted 2014
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