I (vile syllable!) asked for this,
True. My goal was never bliss,
Though I would be hard pressed now
To determine exactly what or who
And by what means, how,
Exactly, I did in fact expect from you.
I asked for the sword, to bleed
When you became my only need;
Or did you? There’s the rub, ay.
You have put me to confusion,
Compounded by my propensity to lie
(Only ever to myself). O, Illusion!
Did I ever in fact enter the mystery
Or have I only recast history?
Have I been duped? If so,
It is surely you who have done
It. But, I have allowed you,
You’ve already, finally, won.
The pain of doubt doubles
And again, exacerbating troubles
In proportion to the gravity
Of the thing doubted;
Is there a secret depravity
That I, ignorant, have not outed?
You know, and I do not.
There is a heavy, smothering, hot
Cloud of thundering sadness
Here, in my secret heart.
As ever, to discover gladness
Is beyond the scope of my poor art.
But, to stop is death,
And so we march on, weeping,
Forward, with every haggard breath
Recalling at least that we’re alive
The fog may yet clear, dear heart
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 10:51 AM UTC
I (vile syllable!) asked for this,
True. My goal was never bliss,
Though I would be hard pressed now
To determine exactly what or who
And by what means, how,
Exactly, I did in fact expect from you.
I asked for the sword, to bleed
When you became my only need;
Or did you? There’s the rub, ay.
You have put me to confusion,
Compounded by my propensity to lie
(Only ever to myself). O, Illusion!
Did I ever in fact enter the mystery
Or have I only recast history?
Have I been duped? If so,
It is surely you who have done
It. But, I have allowed you,
You’ve already, finally, won.
The pain of doubt doubles
And again, exacerbating troubles
In proportion to the gravity
Of the thing doubted;
Is there a secret depravity
That I, ignorant, have not outed?
You know, and I do not.
There is a heavy, smothering, hot
Cloud of thundering sadness
Here, in my secret heart.
As ever, to discover gladness
Is beyond the scope of my poor art.
But, to stop is death,
And so we march on, weeping,
Forward, with every haggard breath
Recalling at least that we’re alive
The fog may yet clear, dear heart
