Who was he to never love me,
or he who loved
so pure?
How dare i do so in fear be?
How cruel a woe
inured—
this feels like
a waste
of
thirtysevenfifty. lucre
we could have
leavened else
where,
betterleveraged. put on some
thing other than
my teetering
caprices. being
good enough is
just not. why,
as a novice,
can i not be
more master
ful? abecedarian
aspiration.
when tomorrow is
a blank
space,
unimagined, what time
is there—for waiting?
you, you
but a reader.
hubristic seer. you
may penetrate
interstices, but without
stitchedmargins,
your desires
would never pore
pages. withheld. with
out. blank,
balked breadths. so, sit.
still quiet,
discerning. knowing
you've no allay
for my agitation.
impatience. a
thing never diagnosed,
no! not ever.
only endured.
how
much time should
i set aside for
learning
something as sudden as
a severingedge?
sonofabitch! i
paid for the soaking
stone that i
might better slice
through stone
fruit, amongst
the many things
i may. this life,
so very involved
with waste.
what then of
inquiry
from which
nothing
is
learned—nothing taught?
neither student,
nor teacher.
an estrangement
acute.
what lessens the
incalculable?
should one amend
the sum?
fail safe for
the insuperable,
a supposition
where equation fails.
some data are
too stark to be rounded—
in which case,
it’s reckoned
below.
Post dozing, in a
partial state, i perceive your
abiding allure. A
distance of tables between, i climbed
atop and drug
myself along their edges, through
the tenebrism,
toward you & your shadow. echo.
The two of you
weren't frightened, simply confused.
Chairs caromed
aside, i smiled—clumsily closer.
noNCompanion
smiling, until finally i arrived, the final
chair knocked from
the table. Your shadow, serene yet
puzzled,
notknowing, but you—stillbeautiful—knew me,
not
knowing. What a shame you never loved me,
only ever seeing
me awkward. Not nearing
normally. This
face grinning with stupidlove—
unrequited.
i
The walk :
winter falls, springing, tired,
summer stumbles,
falling. The pedestrian
breeze soundily
locates one shoreside—
sottosuolo.
The wind, as
waves, lapping indifferent.
ii
Perched before
the door, chattering—
an instinctual
somatic saccade—
as the
pileatedwoodpecker
sticks its
semi's. As metronome :
bodies making,
doing as instinct
informs.
Shine Ballard, the dégagé-dabbler, currently creates and resides on this plane(t).
@xShine14
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