Dimmesdale

November 27, 2009
The seams of the ceiling are but thinly veiled
as my hands tremble and my heart winces.
In mind’s eye, dust and plaster cascade in streams,
showering my fetal body with a force that minces.

It becomes irrevocably clear, I speak of now
as you are captured as my Holy Grail,
dissipating so quickly, a fleeting glance,
lost among my tormented wails.

In the enclose of fabric and tears,
wildly my thoughts race into irony,
typified by high school pitfalls and fears;
I cannot… I cannot…

For the disappointment is great
when the streak is green-ish black,
when the specific gravity is far less,
when there is so much more hardness.
Because, really, it’s just fool’s gold.

Wrought with cognitive dissonance, he reminds me, I am not so far apart -
clutching my hand over my heart.





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