If it were sensible to love you,
then everyone would do so,
and as I sit across from loneliness
in this kitchenette, I contemplate
how the table, much like my heart,
pivots on an angle.
To which would I be referring,
the blistered legs or decayed heart,
when I gently touch the texture
and wonder if its origins
are similar to my own?
Once proud and strong
in a wilderness of shrubbery and undergrowth,
now that which stood for centuries,
admiring the still changing world,
was crippled most severely
by a single blow.
I, who sits beside myself
acknowledges such strife,
a liquid beverage running like a busted tap
along the curvature of my face.
A salty droplet collapses
upon the table top, the misery
of both myself and the furniture,
which helps keep me upright,
becoming unanimously combined.
Where one mourns the loss of comradery,
exhibited from the fellow environmental beasts,
I cry anonymously for a woman,
struck down by an avalanche
of lightning fast pain.
Never will you return to the great beauty
I fell hopelessly in romance with,
and out of all the patron’s in life’s orchestra,
this fair princess of goodly will,
now isolated and distressed,
is the one tender soul who never did deserve
that which indefinitely ruins you.
Posted on August 5, 2014, in Poetry and tagged art, depression, environment, feelings, friendship, furniture, loneliness, love, nature, pain, poetry, sadness, writing. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.