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Date: Sat, 16 May 2015 22:47:07 -0700 (PDT)
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Subject: Poems: 160515 - May 16th, 2015
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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160515A
------------
The comings and goings,
of insignificance,
wear away the hours.
The scribbling of a madman,
fill up the endless pages,
of an empty notebook.
There were no winning tickets,
to cash in on,
but they all cost something.
That holds you ransom,
as another kind of debt
that you can never pay.
They kept you guessing,
trying to make you believe
that you could actually win.
The only thing you really got
was that fear of coming nearer
to anything that you dread to lose.
You want to,
but you cannot anymore,
because that would betray you.
-------------------------------------
160515B
------------
Counting the losses,
and you were one of them,
but it did not really matter
whether you really were,
one of the living or the dead.
It was too long ago,
and our lines were never meant
to intersect in any distant future.
You were too far away,
for me to ever really touch.
It is that sort of magic,
that makes for the passing of time,
and seems more another type of curse,
though even then our spells were wrong
where the words crossed over.
In the end it is all about anatomies,
and how various parts go together.
Fingers seeming incomplete;
Left to unfinished gestures,
that then lost their real meanings.
You left me feeling so very lost,
in the mountains of my mind:
An inhabitant of a ghost town
that you had long left behind,
having moved on to new haunts.
----------------------------------------
160515C
------------
Too often it is too true,
that if the game gets played,
then there is no winner.
We lost each other,
somewhere between moves,
onto different squares.
We became playing pieces,
that follow precise rules,
at the command of the dice.
It was never about making bets,
on any of the possible outcomes,
being a jackpot winning play.
It was more about an ocean
of other possibilities,
past the edge of the playing board.
It is the fact that the game was played
that ruined everything else,
because that wiped out the truth.
---------------------------------------
160515D
------------
Magnolias coming to an ending,
as the lilacs begin,
and in all that bursting forth,
then dying out again,
various tragedies come to mind.
I would send flowers,
if it would make any difference,
but that has been done,
with the same lack of effect,
far too many times.
We evade the specifics of it all,
by invoking a generic category
where everything goes
in the same direction,
down a familiar track.
The same as all the broken songs
that try to find new ways
to breach the same old subject,
as to variations written on walls,
on to the theme of endings
We do not even get to kiss goodbye,
when it is over,
leaving endings as cold slices
across the cadaver of reality,
dissecting for cause of death.
The chaos of your eyes,
said that we were out of time,
before we even had a chance to begin,
chasing after our own version
of some too typical and foolish dream.
I thought you were so very special,
but that meant that I had too much to learn,
about how ordinary it all really is.
The trouble is I never escaped the cage
that typically fates song birds and poets.
-------------------------------------------------
160515E
-----------
If I think about it,
I start to wonder,
what any of it is really for.
What does it amount to,
and why does anyone bother,
if that is all that there really is.
It is a long hard dig
for deviously buried treasure,
only to find a jack- in- the- box.
That clown jumps out at you,
playing its little ditty,
having been wound up inside.
Its only real purpose
to make you feel more the fool
than it was ever meant to be.
----------------------------------
160515F
----------
It is easy to surrender
what one never had anything of,
in the search for something else.
I came away from you,
so many times,
only to never look for you again.
You were never the same twice,
and I am always looking,
for someone else.
I keep saying that that is your fault,
though you would blame it on me,
in the usual style of argument.
Each time the same effect,
as to something discarded
and something chanced to be saved.
That is what twists and bends us,
from what we were to what we become,
taking us through all that is in between.
I am still searching for beauty,
but not the kind I once saw in you and me,
everything always being different.
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