Saturday, September 10, 2005


I cannot seem to say to you
How bright and pretty you are;
I feel like some old workshoe
Out of place at a festive dance.

I seem to always see myself as marred—
Some awkward, dark-stained, bended thing
Beneath a grievous cloud…
Why must this be so hard?

Were I all that men aspire to be
And something more beside,
Still I could not tell you all you are
Or make your moving spirit
Stand still upon the page.

Carol, kind heart, you are so dear,
But nothing near, nor will be;
Soon you will be gone
And this, all this will be in vain.
(Most vain in me is the notion
That you could care for me.)


4th draft: 09/08/05
©1986 Ronald C. Southern

No comments:

Post a Comment

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)