Your words rang out both elegant and bitter
like sour wine from an antique golden cup,
pouring a ballad rare, medieval, mythic,
with rhymes built neatly to the last refrain,
where all the lovers die.
Your looks were bad, edged, blank and tender,
alternately protective and estranged,
till finally all was sorted, the last line came,
and you were going on without me, neatly folded
like a newspaper forgotten on a train.
Pain well-cooked reduces down to apathy, and
apathy well-cooked becomes a passive steam
inflating a whistling void that’s stretched and wrinkled
like yesterday’s balloons who've lost too soon
their gift of high unshackled random flight.
Rapidly one thought becomes another.
The revulsion of feelings becomes habitual.
Vices are pulled from our hands, each one by one,
till we're left holding our virtues like
based on a fragment from 1988
Posted for Magpie Tales #42