Sick of Myself

 

 

            It wounds me!

Fools me into ever present danger.

Rules me, says now’s the time

To be her saviour.

 

 

            When candid thought

Degenerates into the abyss,

The kiss seems hard to find –

The look of love altogether blind.

 

 

            Worlds apart under

A roof where sad sentiment no

Longer blesses the lips of cherry

Souls, I can see, the un-fathomability,

The discordant fantasy gone astray.

 

 

            Be wary of my deepening

Sickening sliding heart, docked with

Shock, fleeing the greyhounds stark

And mad like a hare in March.

 

 

           

            Spring approaches one last

Time, and my disbelieving mind

Conjures the absurd, the paranoid,

The whimsical faint test of falsehoods.

 

 

    Is this love that keeps you quiet

Quartered? Or habits of the familiar?

For a leak has sprung that strips my

Confidence  in us, in you, in I.

 

 

            As words tumble from my

Own sly reminds, in a season grey

Like that of Citizen Kane,  a desperate

Headline begs I turn away,

                                    “She’s Leaving.”

 

 

Michael J Waite 12^th January 2009 0810hrs.