Our Fill of Despair

-


 

I’ve seen enough beginnings

To know how little significance they hold

The new purple and yellow flowers of spring

Are just as brown as everything else come fall

The red-haired hopefulness of youth

Goes grey, and regretful, and angry

It is just the way things are

Always decaying

Engaged in the slow march of entropy

Novelty dims

As the new dream dies

Replaced by an even deeper malaise

We must resist the urge to celebrate

We must repel the suggested promise of renewal

Lest we be disappointed

Forced to drink our fill of despair.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Small Dark Spaces

-
Image
  When we were young Before we understood the world We sought out small dark spaces We slid under the bed We climbed into the dryer We closed ourselves up in the pumphouse We disappeared into the crawlspace We found solace in the kitchen cabinets We searched out these cramped places That could be shut off from view We were hiding from the monster in our home We were always found Now we are older I still shrink from the light I still pursue cramped dim hideaways I may always I hope you have fared better.
Read more

Conversations With My Father

-
Image
Neither of us is attentive I stopped listening when I was younger When he was younger too Back then he spoke in anger And listened to the bottle I shrank from his words Learned to distrust them I could say nothing that interested him He is older now, but communication hasn’t improved He listens to the book now Taking notice of little else He talks in feigned meekness Forgetting willfully the past barbarity My trust hasn’t recovered as fully as my bones His softer up-to-date language Does not penetrate my skin We talk,  but only superficially We speak, but it is formulaic And mundane We exchange words, But neither of us really says anything In a way The empty bland chatter hurts worse  Than the belts and backhands In another way It hurts far worse.
Read more

In the Shadow of the Foothills

-
Image
A chill frost crusts the morning grass And forms an impenetrable shell on my windshield I dread the cold and the wet and  the burning pain in my hands I could scrape the glass clean and have it done Or let the defroster work and have another cup of coffee I drink a second cup of the bitter brew  in the shadow of the foothills I drag the week’s trash down the treacherous drive To the curb, for pickup As the sun crests the mountain, It sets fire to the frozen particles  Clinging to the trash can A million dazzling glints on the black And I welcome the sparkling flame of morning.
Read more