Lost Cause: A Poem

Lost Cause

The eventide approaches,
The violet hour,
The gloaming,
The teenaged are black silhouettes
Across the blaze of sun.

The one apart,
Very edge of them,
Strides with shoes
Tied across aching shoulders.

Long arms fall down
To calloused hands,
Bruise-ridden knuckles,
Fist-fight-familiar fingers
Clench the cooling night.

He is a quivering being
Made up of gunpowder,

Reaching, retreating,
Flying and falling
In waves,
Raving rage and radiance,
A paradox of light and night,
Trapped in cage of bone and flesh.

He is prisoned in his passion,
Controlled by neither
Man, machine.

He fights whoever dares.

He pours out himself
And is drunk up by the rest.

He strives for greatness
With his oft-rewarded hands,
And is heralded, heroic,
Held high.

But now, in night,
When they part ways,
He is harassed by guilt and agony.

His hands,
Once built to paint,
Now marred with blood and grime,
Convulse at his sides,
And his chest is a tremor.

Manic panic.

With broken fingers
And broken soul,
He lingers on the road,
Alone and empty.

His knees are struck
By the weight of his cast-away heart.
He staggers in the dark.

“How have I come to this?”

The words are silent from his throat,
Though echo in his ribcage.

“I was made to make,
And now have stooped to spoiling.
I used to paint in blue and gold,
Now I paint in blood and bruises.”

He collapses on the street-side,
Dead tired, dead finished.

His face is hollow in his hands.

His eyes stare into dark and plead for sunrise.

Resolution revolution
Stirs in his knees and elbows,
Swirling through his limbs.

His fingers ache to grip the brush,
To sweep the pigment.

Tomorrow, in the light of Spring,
All will change,
All will change.

Tomorrow, yes, for sure.

The morning floods
With pink and yellow.

He wakes up from the gutter.

He washes away cakes of mud and blood,
Smears the dirt, dried sweat from his cheeks.
He has things to do,
He has three fights today.

The tubes of paint rot
And decay.

See, his resolve breaks
With each rising of the sun.
He is praised in daylight.

And so it goes.

He vows each night
To change his ways.

Each ray of light
Breaches oath.

And so it goes,
Each night, each day,
In endless round.

His fingers,
Blood and bruises,
Have never healed,
Have never scabbed.

And morning dawns.
And he falls into every-day old ways.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Lost Cause: A Poem

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