i could write again in a hundred years
practice etching what some future misery
will defeatedly decide redundant
though there is more of me now than before
the center of the universe has shifted
somewhere left and behind my dreams
that doesn’t mean i have given up
trying to mount my essence into eternity
my cravings only last as the last breath
i will ever take
for you for myself for any other
who should stop and breathe of my world
there used to be a spark within
that gloried in planting self under either
storied moon or sweltering sun
strength finds its best face in impervious
youth
but now eloquence tempers its voice
behind drawn drapes and shuttered blinds
somehow the significance of that marked
difference protects me as it should be
the uninquisitive nature of the choice
a rationale comported with ease and age
lost loves and lost dreams a dance
discovering syntax in unthinking
i could write again in a hundred years
but i’ll probably be deader than a song
elvis never sang as smoothly as you’d like
the one you keep trying to recall
one missing word and one missing life
keeping you from remembering
but one you’ve never quite forgotten
only that it said something right
but never really helped you correct
whatever was wrong with a life
that has never been strong before the wind
but soars and plummets the same
I haven’t forgotten how good you can write… how your eloquence touches every genre of emotion in me… how that proverbial sadness underscores this proverbial beauty from words you string up together.
Like this very entry.
I’ve seen this when I came last, and I’ve come back every once in a while to see if there is something more recent than this. In my mind, it would have made me happy keeping the knowledge that if I came back, there would be something else to read… that you’ve written again… more recently.
In a hundred years? Don’t be kidding me. :)