I’ve
conflicted thoughts with farewell
though
I can’t explain why.
Perhaps,
leaving is tied to motion—
the
constant need to uproot,
tempt
mutability.
If
that were the impetus
some
clarity may be possible,
but
this constant dowager of reinvention
diminishes
clarity.
I’ve
no love for temperance,
nor
the plague of temerity;
yet
time corrodes the most stringent logic—
exposes
fecund folly
in
the brittle recesses of
purpose.
It’s
all here-say for the heresy of stasis—
that
insidious paradigm that inevitably corrupts
the
benign mundanity of the everyday:
Surreptitiously
unraveling the solidity of Virtue,
Obfuscating
the compass of Wills,
Re-calibrating the abacus of Wants.
Yet,
as the precipice taunts promise
—meandering
possibilities endless and infinite—
one
can’t help but look at the debris-laden streets of former days:
when
ravenous eyes gorged in excess.
Soon
enough, this too shall pass:
days
bleeding into each other,
memories
muddling to mosaic....
This epoch, long
gone
forgotten amidst
the pandering nooks
of a wayward
heart.
