Cradled here between your two states,
the one indifferent, the other regretful –
what am I to feel?
You now, apparently, regard me as a kindred spirit.
Have I been, then, relegated to such a bloodless eminence
in your marrow, in your guts?
Cold comfort for such a one as I,
whose insurgent embers, carefully banked,
are withheld from wildfire only by the resolution
not to self-immolate before the carnivorous, waiting eyes
of the world.
Broken spirits, blackdog hearts are not the fashion now.
Such antiquities, relics of dramatic youth,
evoke scornful laughter from the hoi polloi –
those smooth slick automatons we are expected to become
in this new Gilded Age –
encrusted not with golden hopes but an impenetrable alloy
of cynicism, ignorance and greed.
I will not be fodder for relentless gears that crush romance,
deny the soul,
mock that which should be, if not is.
But neither will I lash myself, bleeding,
to the stake of ridicule.
Only here, in these pages, will I ooze that fluid that betrays my fissures,
belies my tempered exterior,
consumes me to the core
(if I allow it)!
You know the feeling, in remembrance if not in fact.
Visceral memory is not so easily obliterated,
even by will or martial stricture.
So you languish, nonchalantly fainéant,
confident that the road you choose is the rational passage
for a hero;
while, off to the east, glinting in the setting sun,
I sparkle, burn and fade,
only to resurrect, rekindle, at each stray wireless transmission
from the ether.
© 2012 RC deWinter
Lines on emotional uncertainty, the condition of the self in relation to the world and the determination to prevail withal.