Lessons not yet learned
Questions aborted between the synapses
By the time I get to the dumbing down of instincts
and we’re there
it’s a poem written away from me during
the hummingbird equivalent of an adrenalin crash.
I’m embraced by my conundrums,
the haunting morality plays,
the blurred reaffirmations once
only to be found in trysts that backfired repeatedly
into the psychobabble of love.
I’m listed in a diary as innocent when I talk in riddles,
laying the guilt of misinterpretation
on the last drink at the end of the party.
There’s a lesson yet to be learned at the breakdown
beginning where I appear,
ending when the atomic weight of anxieties
promises fission.
I’m the rat holding the poison arrow
alone among the gears of the clockwork city.
I watch myself watch myself
aroused by the diamond queen of white lingerie.
I watch myself watch myself
another metaphor rising against gravity
on wings like blades of cosmic rays
cutting shadows into micro shards of conflicting oblivions.
I’m a poor man’s echo
in the game of self portraits.
100 year old mirrors contain dire warnings
in keen edged mosaics
specific and beautiful
drawn in coffee ring constellations
on napkins given to baristas
as invitations to a hellfire club
where libertines dance to the music of eroding disguises
whispering beneath the lash.
silenced by the thrust of lilacs.
Double edged secrets
often without a face
burn like a comet
And the omen is an echo
of all the questions shouting between the synapses
that better poets than me have yet to solve.
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