She’d doubted little but that she’d seen
The years erode in apathy; her reticence,
A lofty presage, the onslaught of age and common sense.
Few would guess. They’d cauterized intentions
and but for the rising of the occasional dream
In time might well have honed her fears but then she’d met herself
And found the chance encounter oddly pleasant.
He’d elevated loneliness―a badge of honour in youth―an essence
Among the many rites to be stacked neatly on the shelf,
And in time no lasting nights, no respites sealed; revealed, prayer’s the thing
Retained between the shadows, stale perhaps at times like flowers
Pressed between a journal’s soulless leaves, natural powers
Collapsed within a hidden room where only sunbeams and dustbunnies sing
Anywhere but in the rain. Banalities whispered endlessly, axioms, hesitation,
Then, between the beads, metered patience dwells just this side of resignation.
Patterns, tedious to the casual connoisseur of callow circumstance,
Whose aunts and uncles–convalescent cynosures–apply the appliqué
That bests all daily bread but adds nothing to the liquor save signatures
That serve as ligatures and borders between circuses
Of disingenuous serendipity; floral blooms of in between,
And on the other side of propinquity ane wider welding weeds
And creeping things visible but moments past the age of puberty. Seeds
Of adolescence are careless where they land, despondent with obscene
And righteous rage at opportunities of eternity and propagation. It is just so with common inmates as well those in military congregation:
Universal laws claim exclusive rights to the infinitive in subjugation
To principles set down by God-knows-what the conjugation.
We witness, then, in every accident a recusal of the spheres,
What flowers, tadpoles, insects, and the whole of mankind fears.
…painting by Valery Vetshteyn [Валерий Ветштейн]…