Saturday, October 14, 2006

To tell the truth

— © 1992, Troy K Spears

To tell the truth, preach the apocalypse
dredge the flickers — memory or fancy —
to tell my sorrow, to say I love you.

Many too many games.
The bridge from tender concern to concern for honor
has been crossed by the hollow soul's own gravity.
The will to gutter or glory,
the will to wife.

I have never been so close to such perfection.
Your weaknesses halo you with the light of a lonely god.
Amid the chatter of peers, the chinking of bottles,
turning of pages, droning of tutors...
There lies no meditating sage on your breast,
but the Cross of Christ.

The impossibility of our situation is no deterrent to me —
windmill jouster, bible peddler —
it merely drives me mad,
perhaps to genius.

Only that you know,
I ardently wish to leave off these games,
a healing and end to this unjust vendetta,
too long an unsuccored hurt.

Only that you know,
I pray for our child.

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