Things fall apart left to themselves –
rust, rot, mildew, and age; our
skins, newborn smooth,
crack and fissure, fall
off one dead
cell at a
time.
We’ve forgotten how it felt
when we wanted to kiss –
when we wanted for
hours, and the
wanting was
everything.
Now weeds and thorns
thrive while good-
natured neglect
leaves us
all poor.
It occurred to me the other day,
I don’t buy flowers anymore;
it occurred to me the other
day: I can’t really
remember what
that was like.
Let us now praise famous men.
So said Jesus, son of Sirach –
whose wisdom I reject.
Let us now praise half-measure men
like me. Not inhuman strong –
cadaver cold and graceful;
not inhuman dark – Gothic
gargoyle brooding;
subhuman weak – moving
through mud and missing
something.
‘Things fall apart left to themselves –’
Again, my sincere compliments for your poetic talent and the way you bring this to life.
Is this a live case? If so, you may have come in a stage where you have to move on. Either stop with it, leave the other person and drop with poetry, songs etc – or move on to making a first phone call, write a mail, if you want any friendship at all. You don’t know if it will work, but not trying will definitely not work. Poetry can work as a trap, if you move towards something where you don’t really want to be.
No one goes through life without ‘things falling apart’…only those who put up walls and eventually even those come tumbling down…God I can kiss every day if I choose and I don’t…I can buy flowers every day and I don’t…I hate when I choose not to live and love and laugh…you made me remember that it takes effort to do those things.
True. I think it does and doesn’t take effort. It is effort, but it is also natural – feels right in the moment(?)