Her eyes look past,
past my postured figure,
past the drunkard who’s ****** himself,
who sulks in his **** soaked pants,
sulking in drowned regrets and fog,
past the high heeled woman,
who steps over the drunkard’s liquid lines,
which flow across soot stained concrete,
upon this boulevard on this street in Budapest,
we could have been anywhere.
She’s in a bad mood,
doesn’t want to talk,
doesn’t want to listen,
probably doesn’t want to even live,
I understand her,
better than I care to admit,
she’s battling a lung affection,
she’s battling the delusioned stares of countless lustful men,
I tell her she doesn’t have to talk,
I tell her she doesn’t have to listen,
I tell her she’s welcome to come in,
to my sanctuary and simply exist there,
she refuses all my offers,
and I wonder,
what she sees,
when she stares past everything she sees,
I tell her I’m going to write a poem about her,
she asks why,
I tell her I’m a poet and that’s what I do,
I write about moments just like this one,
even though I know words are only words.
I know the frustration,
of trying to explain the unexplainable,
I know the frustration,
of trying to put all this in prose that’s easily digestible,
and herein,
lies the paradox,
if ignorance is bliss,
then genius is torture,
and we are both tortured,
and we are both in denial,
and we both know,
we may never see each other again.
Her eyes look past,
past my postured figure,
past the drunkard who’s ****** himself,
who sulks in his **** soaked pants,
sulking in drowned regrets and fog,
past the high heeled woman,
who steps over the drunkard’s liquid lines,
which flow across soot stained concrete,
upon this boulevard on this street in Budapest,
we could have been anywhere…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
07/09/16
Another True Story...
