with broken pride and denied success--
with nothing mattering
because nothing is allowed fruition--
with enemies who hate me on sight
and loved ones who love me but not quite enough--
I finally know why under the rage
simmers a bemused shrug signaling 'figures'
and turn away wearily from the comedy
of my desires--ever hoping where there is none--
at least the violet twilights--the pale olive mists--
the early or late sunlight slanting across the waters
onto the rock-face of ageless cliffs--and the young sweeties
who made my ten-year-old heart pound with fear
and yearning before we all learned how doomed we really are--
the reason itself for our flowing blood in these
ridiculous bodies designed for the sojourn's trial--
whatever desires and delusions of desire made life seem alive--
oh sitting watching yet another vivid sunset--(how many
before the last one of this life?)--I am grateful that oh
at least these things cannot be taken away from me...
Content (c) 2008-2009 Philip Milito.