TEN

TEN (a response to X … FYI: format isn’t as intended, but haven’t the energy to correct at the moment…hopefully the meaning will still ring true.)

0. Origin of the theses*:

*Prosody: [less commonly] stressed.

I once wrote poems of great love.

1. Aforementioned and foreword:
While reading those old poems,

I have (Chorus: again, again, once more with feeling)

found myself time-traveling,

observing a girl who was

self-satisfied, naïve, hopeful,

and certain that the love she felt

was also felt by the beloved.

2. Non-chronological:

Time-travel of the mind is fragmentary

at best.

3. And scene! (4000 miles traveled in the blink of six months):

Alone together with him, something surely

unwise, and yes

it was, but oh,

it wasn’t.

4. The warmth of winter:

It was beautiful, in its shades of grey and old,

stony, silent, wet, and cold,

the dampest, steely cold—

that cut deep through flesh

beyond the marrow, the core of bones—

into thought itself.

Somehow that liquid air soothed my aching

mind,

and I found clarity within that heaviest fog.

5. Leaving:

Farewell scenes in airports

are always more romantic

in the movies. (Chorus: don’t go, don’t go)

But there was a swift kiss,

and later, tears in the loo.

6. Months later.

My sense of self devolved

into blackest thought.

7. Alone.
And this became the new pattern, quite unlike

the orderly, angular argyle pathway of raindrops

(on the windows of a bus)

which I once felt

inclined to observe.

Instead, circular—

A steeply declining spiral

natural enough in its descent,

for even Fibonacci to recognize.

8. Observations began to shift:

From the constant, determined effort to connect all life around me to some         nebulous concept

of being-in-love.

To simple acknowledgment

of being.

9.  And more commonly,

the thesis is unstressed.

I had chosen to live this way, believing each successive love to be my last,

but meteorologists could have told me that

such high pressure would push each one of them

away from me.

10. And the curtain approaches.

The old  chorus resounded: “thoughts of you, thoughts of you, thoughts of you.”

The new one is an old one,

a joke from the Bard himself: “to thine own self be true.”

This seems the thing to do.

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