Closed
my love is a back porch,
cozy, quaint,
but easily forgotten….
except, of course, when you’re there
there’s this
hell of a view, hell when viewed by
eyes that often only want to remember
good times
swinging
sunsets and whispers,
nights counting stars
against the songs of crickets chirping,
but eventually
all the music stops
all that’s left is
spider webs
wheezing
overgrown collection of
clutter, accumulation
from stuff for which there is
no room inside
dust layers broken floor boards
reminders that steps must be taken
gently, or you fall through the cracks
and the screen door
only opens in reverse
[End Poem]
As this poem describes, sometimes I feel like I love "wrong", like I misread the directions or am using an unauthorized copy. Hopefully coming to terms with this is the first step to correcting the problems.
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
