Opus

Knowing what it is that sits between the
whom you were and where you are within
this muddled mess still fails to assuage a
single sign defined placatory – it’s just a
niche prescribed, a flourish in grand geste,
and me who was and fitted in the corpse
is dead, a subtle end exemplified all fair
and fine inside its rustic comic-tragedy

If surprised I’d be a voiceless urn of ashes
spread before the pyre had ever burned this
opus evidence – but yet I see pretence now
dressed in finery, as if intent on making real
a play on words defining hence the who and
what and whence of me
© 9 January 2012, I. D. Carswell