Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2023
The
tilt of my seesaw
is decidedly downward facing dog:

and there’s no rush to judgment, for the powers that be,
be delighted by slow-walking, making the waiting
max-tortuous, but am of an age when everything,
even the long buried sins and unkept promises,
poke and **** nonstop, and the formulae once
relied upon to ease incipient self-deception,
to temporize and salve the consternations

of unkempt aggravated remorse fail,

as aged misdemeanors be matured felonies,
I blurt and declare guilt to all, alas, and yet, in the
ultimate crushing of tardiness, knotted by indignity of silence,


no one is desirous
of taking my

confession

5:10pm
Thu Jan 28
2023
Written by
Nat Lipstadt  M/nyc
(M/nyc)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems