When you’re sure
it’s really you
who can’t,
your wherewithal is poor,
the sense of it
makes you so blue
you cannot even rant
or throw a tant
rum one down,
nor none such stuff,
those damned thoughts, emotions
so to blunt,
not sure
your soul
is really there
to call your own. . .

Right then,
it very likely could be you
who, back at you,
would be the one
to cast first stone. . .

Things look thorny–
maybe black–
but ’round the corner
or next morning,
you may well remember that
somehow you’ve slid
some hope stuffed
somewhere inside your body hid,
far up your sleeve,

or maybe tucked
just in your cuff. . .

So, perhaps it pays
to stay a little still
and keep the internal jury out
as to the question
of whether you’ve yet had enough. . .

Because the consequences
get more dire,
when you go
with a corner of you
lain in wait,
God or man
would rise
to call your bluff.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s