poem14 Mar 2011 06:18 pm

Of course there were warning signs:

slammed doors, the silence at breakfast,
arguments over who should get the paper
or let out the dog. Things moved

or disappeared;
the sleeping pills changed cabinets,
his favorite books left gaps
like skull’s eyes in the shelves, and though

he always had an answer for you, still
you might have seen and known

and turned…where?
What magic brew could draw
poison from a poisoned heart,
could harden his skin against himself?
Whose name would bind him,
what enchanted key could open
the rusted locks behind his eyes?

Fate is a muddy track
that hardens around our footprints.
All its signs are
backwards, written in a glass.
Fate is the worm in the apple,
hidden until the first bite.

And none of this can help you,
nothing can change what your heart
refuses to disbelieve:
that this was not his path.
That all the fault is
yours is
yours is


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