After T. S. Eliot and Driftwood Ashore
Peopled
with shadows falling, scattering, muttering unintelligibly
Sweet
insomnia is preferable to such disturbing wandering sleep
And
Prufrock's blumbering, fumbling, clumsy fingers
Unable to
keep trysts, piling broken promises in a heap.
To
unwritten books left hanging, blank, on shelves
"sorry"
becomes a meaningless word mumbled or uttered
to blank
canvases on nails, backcloths and settings for absence
to a song
never sung nor strung, only fitfully stuttered.
Faithless
now and etherized as the dawn and dusk
The
fourteen lines stretch and strain but fail to rhyme
The
question unasked that fails to thaw refrigerated hearts
The tide
that leaves no shiny shells on the sands of time…
Through
such discordant nights then best to stay awake
Nothing
is now, no longer, any more at stake.
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