Midnight Poet Strikes Again, 3
I hurt from the expectation
Of living in the box.
Your grass was green and yellow the grain:
You loved that sweet song of September. Remember?
The one you spoke of with elation.
You modeled your pad and the comfort you had.
And since I respected
The choices you made and the dues that you’d paid,
It’s what you’d expected.
It was so well meant
And my intent
Was to recreate and perpetuate
And be what you said I should be.
It’s human nature, you see,
To covet and reshape till it works,
and neglect all my beautiful quirks
that deserve their own roofline.
And now my A frame
is in decline.
Christened with a low-grade vinegar wine.
Because I built from the outside in.
Compare and contrast.
The greatest sin:
I quenched the need of keeping up
By sipping drips from a cloudy cup
Of a tonic you poured.
(Which I accepted.)
I know I’ve ignored
And I’ve neglected
My authentic, original building plans.
And now this crumbling box won’t stand.
The shingles are leaking, the ceiling now drips,
Though denied with my charming and polished quips,
The damage is growing. My focus, it slips.
The whispers that say I’m going without
all shout in my brain,
and their subtle pain
Will drive me insane
If I don’t listen and act.
So I’ve made a pact.
To let go and to flow and do what I know.
The back hoe is here, it’s engine is running
It’s ready to raze my structure that’s cunning,
For though it’s lackluster,
It’s predictable comfort
Has caused me to fluster.
So these words I must muster:
Matthew LaBanca, Midnight Poet Strikes Again