It Strikes Again

Posted on: Saturday, February 8th, 2020

And it strikes again…
It is true, then. Is it not?
If it is true, color it as such that it has no value.
                            (Or nothing altruistic, at least.)

Do not tempt me! Away and away, please!
Do not ask of me! Away and play with another–
                                                        If so conceited.

If about finding a hole that was once there– it is a discovery I would rather not be part of…

          Alas, it is true! One could injure the world with an honest thought. That dismay and joy and frivolity in circumstance peak, at the very least; an additional cage for which man now has for itself remade. Remanded and remade as I’ve been with this foul information– I could not look at the world with my innocence from five hours ago. Knowing how the cheats work, I became a cheater.

          I could not breathe. I could not boot up my system. I could not venture into all the world has yet to offer. Perhaps a meal and mural could replenish me. What of the dull things I’ve acquired, say, against all sanity could I e’er offer?

          I shake myself. I am done with the familiar angst. I know some women and men whose bodies still house the unspeakable audacities and dreads from five years ago. They seem to have dried themselves up with depression and age. They have fashioned it in a form everlasting. I, on the other hand, have convinced myself of a new and desirable bed. It is old, my body, but all the folds are pedantic to me– therefore, a new setting.

          I still am no shaky company man or unshakable companion but, at least, I do not thirst for a vanity that is being clothed in black to black. It’s funny how one’s submission to dear depression is, as it never leaves, only changes form and assault. It’s funny to demand again from me and, as promised, again, demands of everything.

          My knowledge, my knowledge, my knowledge– it only goes so far. When the demand of the world is high and deafening, I could only open my mouth; the open mouth being my true and final offer.

.
..

…idle, idle, idle.
it strikes again when it’s all
idle, idle, idle…

 
OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Glutton, poetry
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