One day his bubble will burst
leaving him stranded in an alien
sea. He has cursed and misused
the gift granted; terse and cruel
words became the poetry of his
burgeoning discontent.
He never accepted the good
fortune easily, it hung on him rank
and foul for years – the smell tolled
the bell he quipped, held my nose
and plugged my ears, dived into
the deep end of a cess pit.
His days of infamy dissipate into
an afternoon of cold comfort where
he dreads the setting sun. Why can’t
you stay still a moment longer you
blind and mindless melon? You
already sleep more than I do.
‘Stay awake little one’,
replied the slowing sun,
‘burn what remains
of your frail light – when
you learn to love the dawn
I shall return’.
© I.D. Carswell 2007-02-11
No comments:
Post a Comment