Life these days is a muddied stream,
In which I paddle a reckless canoe.
Love to me is a torn, bloodied river,
False lover who once was true.
Intimacy, dagger in the back of already sleepless nights,
Diagnosis heartbreak and heading south,
Changing landscapes and canceled flights,
Questions answered in the negative
Before they leave the upturned mouth.
Muddied streams and bloodied rivers,
Emptied dreams that make you shiver.
Worrisome worlds that spit in the face,
Secrets that spin, nosediving into space.
Unfound lovers that grope for you,
In the midst of rubble and debris,
Ripped reckless fever that sputters with loss,
Burns like an ulcer inside of me
See the clown with the funny shoes,
Tweak his red rubber ball nose,
Awkwardly dressed for the winter snows.
Time has expired for merriment and glee.
Life these days is a sour, unsettling cream,
Love these days is a shrill and desperate plea.
Life today is a muddied stream,
A worn down broken excuse for a dream.
Love to me is a strange bloodied river,
A poisoned arrow shot straight from the quiver.
Heartbreak that rips and tears at the seams.
I say not again to the anguish,
Keep your distance I plead to the rain,
But the anguish it roars and the rain clouds soar.
The rafters collapse, and with them the timbers of the heart again,
Into the abyss of the lonely trash tin,
The ashes of a self-destructive soul,
Treading water in the lonely shoals.
My soul it shivers as it tastes the violence,
What can't be cured must be endured in silence.
Uncertainty hovers in the safety of bedcovers,
Lurks in the vocal cords of street hounds,
Useless as yesterday's coffee grounds,
The grainy shifting sand of mortal sorrow,
Walking a dead man with torn umbrella
Towards the storms of a ravaged tomorrow.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Note: This was originally written 1983-ish, hence the hint of romance betrayed. Today I look at this poem as a treatise on the losses that come with an incurable, sometimes difficult to treat disease.
No comments:
Post a Comment