I'm undeceived. It's taken me a while
to measure all beyond Narcissus' smile
(I'd never headed down the cynic mile,
nor set my deepest past out fresh on trial).
But now I taste the freedom of this state,
no matter that it's cost a balding pate,
I know it's never, thankfully, too late
to put aside the need for love and hate.
You started down the road that I'd destroyed
our love, your trust, our this, your that, alloyed.
Well now you know the full, and nothing toyed;
though you heed nothing; for your mind has cloyed.
I hold this past... but through the eyes of time.
To whom this child belongs? Is yours or mine?
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoezjaIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
