:: Blindside ::

A Ballad

It's one of those days: ruined lunches and clumsy skies.
The coffee is bitter; my illicit loves have turned me sour.
And I think―fate is playing me for a ball, my muses dour―
My phone shrieks with disapppointment, its buttons full of lies.

My pen makes illegal markings, on papers and papers dull;
The skyline disarticulates―alien aces in a full house deck―
False beacons for my corporate sailor, ending in cruel shipwreck.
Boredom is catching: a bane, a disease, a waiting, a blindside lull.

The sun is a secret little queen today, grown tired in its crown:
'I am pregnant, maybe', says my friend, her eye plainly bright―
I can feel her two heartbeats, and see her felicitous light.
I hug her in comrade joy, even though my womb is quiet now.

I watch an old man shuffle by, nails yellowed by years and nicotine,
An old lady dies, her wisdom dies along with her and a careworn heart:
I'm beginning to think, that love is fraud and fraud is tragic art.
The old man turns, the same sun burns, and my thoughts far from clean.

What words. I chafe. You save. My hero in a wandering stead, spearing
The random mortal enemies that came, clamouring for truth and vent,
On my useless armour, their blood, my lust, we cannot circumvent.
You call now. I tremble, I smile, I quiver with vice, logic―disappearing.

I could go on. But I don't.