by Conor Keane
The book is old, caked in dust,
dog-eared; creases like laughter lines.
It's knowledge shared with many
redemption may lay within.
But it does not sooth, it does not heal.
Merely pokes at how I feel.
Who knows the language it's written in?
Not I; although obvious is that.
Once bitten, twice shy.
Such an apt word that; to illustrate how such feelings flutter
like a bat.
On leathery wings that whisper in the night's sky.
Never seen though, never caught by even vigilant eyes.
Who sees signs? Not I. Not I.
But that is mere mistake, thank God.
But to manufacture? Now that is fraud.
The wings cut through the still night air
A slash in the alabaster moon's glare.
Always a mocking face; a meddler, a peddler.
Influencing tides, feelings, the heart and soul.
and just to laugh; the bastard's goal.
But I am just as bad, oh yes.
It is my fault; I am the best
at sabotage at Olympic degree.
Forever to remain empty.
No hate, no malice, ill will or sympathy,
I learn to be content with brusque austerity.
Who knows these things? Not I, Never I.
I only know what I know, what I feel, sadly so.
What do I know? I sigh and sigh.
Last updated May 26, 2011