I resent my age as a barrier of knowledge
That wisdom is a consequence of time and
My written word, unreliable, informal
It’s true I know not of formalities,
At times my punctuation runs off with Grammar
To form alliances with Spelling Errors and Clichés and impregnate
The delicate rose of transition
but
I know how the air hangs heavy with the scent of coming rain
Recognizing every line in your face as repercussions of my disloyalty
How the pits and falls of the landscape speak of loneliness
As we pass those tall, armed, Sonoran warriors
Planted in place centuries before we were conceived
I know that monster hatched by the catalyst that is I
The all-consuming evil that makes you smile as I fall to my knees
And beg for a moment of mercy (undeserving)
And where to go to find peace amongst the precipitating chaos
I may not know the intricacies of the tragedies
Of Sophocles, of Shakespeare, of the poets of Great
But
the tragedies of what is lost when I lay by his side
As you ponder the flaws of an impossibly tender love…
And how tears run down the streams of your unadorned flesh
To join lakes of sorrow and unfulfilled passions
While I rest my betrayals upon the forests of his chest;
Knowing, innately and miserably, they are unworthy…
That I am unworthy…
This is not lost on me.
