Before my world revolves
it's thirty third turn
around the sun,
I hesitate, ruminate
on skirmishes never won-
silver bullets in a wooden gun.
former amours- dusted, done.
Some were charming, alarming
with lusty gaze,
some waxed skillful in words
that aimed to betray-
some entangled in self-doubt,
miasmic, putrid haze -
some led astray
through briars and brambles
that grazed.
And others were sweet, you know, a sugar pill, effective as a placebo.
and once upon a time,
(if my memory serves me right,)
someone attempted,
(quite heroically)
to exorcize my démons-
(quite unsuccessfully) ...
But listen!
I must pause this reminiscing
(quite abruptly),
because look!
there is
no proud rose flaying me
with inky thorns,
no righteous sunflower
turning it's face from me,
no shrinking violet shying from responsibility,
I view a secret fern
growing steadily,
almost leisurely,
across the shadow slope of midsummer days.
And I know,
although autumn is inevitable,
regret lies heavier than the smell of bitter almonds,
and for now-
it is summer still.
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