The child is nervous from the beginning – making promises…
“This time I will climb from doubt and exceed all that is make believe!”
I will marry the daughter of fortune, and live in her cuddling loving arms. I will become Mr. Poetman, and I will call her “My Sweet Lady of Pink Petals.”
But on the first day of any new thing, ice must first melt to water and return to wet, so that trickles can find their way to the rivers side again.
That is why I am standing so close to a fire, trying to remember who I am.
What are the isometrics of my isolation? What must I be so tensed against?
I was your almost…
I was your maybe…
I was your nearly…
Is there a someday, you might find me crowding a place in your memory?
How do I keep what’s clear from becoming vague, like the lips of old lovers?
Where to put the doubts – the grass that’s turned brown – the leaves that fell from the hanging tree – the left behinds I once called friends?
Where to put the bottle after taking poison – a thousand details to attend to before the leisure of dying can proceed to its satisfactory but final conclusion?
And if there has to be a death, then why not to the assumptions posing like manikins of animation, or the certainties that confine me or anyone?