Sonnets 26 - 30
Falling Apart
Susceptible to the vagaries of yarn
I watch stitches slip from the loose knit
of affection, bear witness as its pattern
ladders with the haemorrhaging of wit.
All the while I hoped mine
would be the skill to save it,
deployed at the faintest sign
of intimacy slipping from the skein of the infinite.
In the warp and weft’s moving
is mimicry of some kaleidoscopic aspect.
Unravelled, I follow the thread of our loving;
a purposeless trail with no respect
for how you once, so perfectly,
completed the weave of me.
Perspective
Listlessly I struggle from my bed
enslaved to being tired.
Yesterday there was a rupture in my head
as all hope simultaneously expired
and I was left to abide
in an uneasy truce with memory.
If my bloodshot eyes were open wide
the whole world is what I’d wish to see,
history in plain sight
- and in that haunting panoramic view
I’d seek the love I lost last night.
Were you still here, you’d emphasise this day was new
- then warn me not to tax my mind
in forlorn searching for past things I’ll never find.
Heading into Winter
Wrestling with an unnamed plight
does nothing but disturb my rest.
Sunset finds me fearing night,
the agony of spending hours oppressed
and trying to escape the reign
of monsters lately subjugating me.
I should not complain
nor beg for mercy;
each morning still dawns bright,
crowned by the sun’s trespass from heaven
to usurp malevolent night.
Yet still I stumble along this uneven
path, one which seems only to get longer
as I get weaker and not stronger.
Camelot’s Phoenix
You paint mascara around your eyes
to camouflage your distraught state,
have music played loud to drown out your cries.
You choose not to curse the fate
that mutilated hope.
Where you once possessed
mythic and unconstrained scope
for wisdom, now you struggle to comprehend the least
of things and fail to vanquish others’ shallow despising.
From this inauspicious state
I see you rising
to knock again at the castle gate,
be admitted for the harmony you yet might bring,
reclaim your rightful place at the table of the king.
Reparations
An idle thought
resurrected from a fragile past
is the long wished for guest who sought
to cauterise loyalty’s waste
and staunch the flow
of might-have-beens. Through the porous night
you are tortured by sufficient woe
to dominate your sight,
the price you’ve paid writ large like the interest on a loan
with the principal lost for sure.
In penury you bemoan
the wealth you had before,
and hope to reinstate me as your friend
just as I was before our friendship’s end.