Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋

Painted (Printed Commitments)

My clothing, hung to dry for any prying eye…

I’m investigating every emotion felt,
ascribing words that don’t quite match.
hope a paint-brushed portrait of words
I long reveal to an audience, to any
that would assemble, considers
love guided by illusion, or delusion,
discovers how a spark initially intends.

Sorry, if dry etchings don’t drip brilliant,
never-envisioned-before color,
the kind you fantastically assign.
after stark, sobered perception,
each nude word clothed codes
in fleeting memory for you, hanging
hope on time nail, hooked by stable wire.

a piece of me and you on flat drab,
adorned forever, loosens little in shadow
of a narrow, hollow hall, cluttered,
where half-dressed we excuse our passing.

soft words want harden as timeless paint,
indelible, never fading or peeling,
sealed in some super gloss before falling
into abyss I fear to navigate, retrieve
essence of whatever it is you and I 
envisioned together, forever.

I must step back, catch breath, breathe,
inhale each consideration reconsidered
in redraft after next to final, final edit.

be still, view. slow this new scene, once
quick-paced, now measured. tiny intervals
redacted scenery, scrubbed wildflowers,
replanted, recolored, recast. swaying sights
lush with life anew, gentle in soothing breezes.
I squeeze your neglected arm, haul you out.
time still beats for an obsessive revisionist.

sorry, my throbbing muffles conceivable sound.
Hear me now, or hear me never. It’s hung.


6.6.22/6.9.22

We must commit to finish what we started, so we have time to live.

36 lines, free verse (if we must count like accountants)
*Notice use of capitalization from apology to assertion.