Wasted On Me

What you meant is agonies aren’t 
that intense any more - no critical 
nitpicking intended; muted vacancy 
now rests where that vaunted air of 
enthusiastic impartiality used to be 

Is it all dead and buried you muse, 
from something too glibly said - say, 
expressed clearing nose and throat, 
but you can’t suggest it’s key to this 
lock staying discretely closed - yet

Lively conversations and comatose 
views out there propound theories 
of an existence that passed you by 
the mutterings of imagined masses 
you interpreted gladly once 

They don’t care much whose voice 
utters those indiscretions as long as 
they feature somewhere; and this is 
the clue, you no longer include ‘I’ as 
a rule in the wider ‘we’ world

You don’t cry finding an awkwardly 
shrivelled to nothing appendage in 
frozen morning’s awareness, ‘tisn’t 
discomfort to pee from that, a little 
vexatious maybe, but the rapt

Thrill of eye-staring’s incredulous 
expressions fails win concessions 
from proud-standing symbols as a 
gauge of other’s classic measures, 
okay, maybe some; but who cares 

You meant to repair a belief we’re 
all in the same sinking boat - if we 
were once we’d see error in such 
proximity; so yes, air your angst 
loudly - but don’t waste it on me 

© 12 May 2014, I. D. Carswell