The Situation

It’s tough, isn’t it, star,
to be harangued
by every strain
of brimming heart?

It’s hard, isn’t it, moon,
when crowds fidget
with their swizzle sticks
as you brighten the bay?

And head, doesn’t it hurt
when love ignites
its pesky orbit
and all logic strays?

Hot, isn’t it, sun?

Admit it’s a relief, shade,
to wear camouflage
while the flamboyant
fade away.

Go ahead, god,
and blame this mess
of blood
and flesh on free will.

That’s life, isn’t it, death,
when guardrails
along the steep drive home
bristle with wreaths and bouquets?

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 )

Twitter picture

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

Facebook photo

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

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s