Jun 2016
"I swear it's not to late"
a daily morning prayer,
given up to no one in particular,
spake with varying levels of
conviction and derision,
confidence, disbelief and indecision
this old standard,
in no hymn book found,
but mine own,
where. hostage-kept,
in some left brain corner stored,
from a well trod path place retrieved
curse-swears
this companion-in-arms
but not my friend no more,
mockingly full-on, these crackling, plastered,
cackling four white walls,
have long since
ceased the enumeration count of
this particular daily devotion's repetition
best left unsaid, they warn,
in case you weary tire of its utterance,
noting that even anti-hope
can also reverse spring eternal,
some things best bitterer~sweet remembered
by absence
and yet these words,
from some fissure crack peek, leak, then
gushingly screamingly escape,
"I swear it's not too late,"
**** these glorious sunny mornings,
demanding my acknowledging presence,
by accepting only this particular, solitary brief tribute,
as my daily surrender to the sun's yellowed blue
amniotic fluids freshness
so I sip my alone-coffee,
listening to the morning news,
that will be forgotten by noon,
but my brain thumps, the body thrums,
in the everywhere I seek to hide,
this cursed blessed almost forsaken but not yet forsook
un cri pour d'amour,
taunts me, haunts me, just say it,
"I swear it's not too late,"
a daily morning prayer,
given up to no one in particular,
spake with varying levels of
conviction and derision,
confidence, disbelief and indecision
this old standard,
in no hymn book found,
but mine own,
where. hostage-kept,
in some left brain corner stored,
from a well trod path place retrieved
curse-swears
this companion-in-arms
but not my friend no more,
mockingly full-on, these crackling, plastered,
cackling four white walls,
have long since
ceased the enumeration count of
this particular daily devotion's repetition
best left unsaid, they warn,
in case you weary tire of its utterance,
noting that even anti-hope
can also reverse spring eternal,
some things best bitterer~sweet remembered
by absence
and yet these words,
from some fissure crack peek, leak, then
gushingly screamingly escape,
"I swear it's not too late,"
**** these glorious sunny mornings,
demanding my acknowledging presence,
by accepting only this particular, solitary brief tribute,
as my daily surrender to the sun's yellowed blue
amniotic fluids freshness
so I sip my alone-coffee,
listening to the morning news,
that will be forgotten by noon,
but my brain thumps, the body thrums,
in the everywhere I seek to hide,
this cursed blessed almost forsaken but not yet forsook
un cri pour d'amour,
taunts me, haunts me, just say it,
"I swear it's not too late,"
