When playing possum with tragedy…a ghost of many tales entangles me.
No use…crying for mercy in this…the pouring rain.
And, yet, I stand in the elements crying…just the same.
The shadows of belated misery…
Always five feet ahead.
Ice droplets slap and cajole.
Promising…’you will sleep incomplete…sell us your soul.’
Complacency curls beneath a broken heart.
Abandoning me of all control.
This small window of opportunity.
A brisk period of time to dust love off and let it shine.
Vows of devotion…a bit brutish and unkind.
I can only deem my love’s memory as, savory with age.
It may sway through a realm of bold bouts, heart-shaped and reticent.
Yet, land in the middle.
Such as the inside of a prized candy, lasting and consistent.
These are the thick of things.
Not flowered in always or forever.
But tenderness in the here and now.
My love does not linger on slippery slopes of what is to come.
My love does not lay in what was.
My love, an organic rhythm.
A divine comedy.
A divine tragedy.
And, the symphony between.