the classics

It always came within closure, thick and stifling.
I didn't look at the sylph that snickered and poked me with a stick,
Fenced me around to a barbed corner,
Skipping foulness on the surface, watching it bounce sadistically.
He was merely some deformation
That grew from a carbuncle in my conscience;
Repulsive and offensive to say the least.
And to think that I had once been enamoured by his crooked brow,
Piercing dull greens that promised the occult,
Crater soul searching for altruism in denial.
Anger refused to set on him; it was by nature his form.
Yet I had excuses, for he was lost don't you know?
A maternal bliss that still hoped to shelter his destruction,
Might fade, drowning in his bloodlust,
Waking, then frozen, hovering downfall in the gaseous space.

Oh no, I'm not looking for a sacrifice.
The claws that scraped by noisily were quite a lullaby,
Not forgetting the slow whirling of raw mussels' scent,
Mocking the senses like a lemon satyr.
I gambled that it had been ether that entranced him,
My little sprite fumed about, turning him on me,
Raging him into some righteous confusion.
It had been an odd bulge, lacking distinction and shape;
Had I taken the moment to decipher,
Perhaps I would now take the time to lament.
As the pendulum struck me square in the temples,
I began to list worldly blemishes upon his sculpted face.
Do I dare to deny that I detested his dependencies,
Admit his weakness that scarred the image,
Or the brain with amnesia programmed to the love slave.

III

That evoked no sympathy in me.
I turned to touch my table, my chair, my face,
Then his screen, wordy visage.
Now wondering if asterisk tears smeared his eyes,
Or may be this was a two-ended cut,
Harming one sensitive heart beat
And the other malfunctioning to register.
Why am I not surprised at all?
This is just history repeating;
The tedious waterwheel spinning.
At least there were no gory combats -
It took effect as quickly and silently as it stole up,
Leaving the earth scorched and raped.
Gone, with him and I blinking at the smoke, the ashes,
Hidden remainders of the seven deaths past.

Feeling voluntary shield wasn't new;
I had pillows and covers
And adolescent ignorance.
Indulgence had satiated the hunger,
So lies the empty shell, merely sentimental,
Slowly swept by some ebbing tide,
Swallowed his echoing memories.
What a joke to even wonder at its reality,
Evident is the site by which we armed and lied,
To each other, it was such a mutual role.
He will calm as the demon dies acidic,
Surly in euphoria, back up upon the seed.
"Be a good sport," I sat to chuckle, head bowed,
Another tie inhibited every interest and sent me packing,
No more loitering around the classics.

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