another shore

how freely we think we are immortals,

our word most certainly each the last.

today we threw out love

and instead rode our high horses ably

into the jester's parade.

i'd like not to be thought of like that;

i held my wary tongue, wavering.

i know the limits of this, and i've received

every bit of it on another shore:

the piercing of a well-timed heart,

the assassination of a beat-bitten soul.

so i need a sort of puerile grace now,

something delicate to counteract the

greed of knowing what's best for everyone

(you only ever know what's best for you

and that's a fortunate science).

i fold in threes, triangle faces and fingers

keeping me from lashing out.

this isn't my desire, to mudsling, to steal the throne.

i cried yesterday so i'm not a martyr now.

11.2012