The Regrettable Existence of an Iron Filing

They get old, these absurd reversals.
I thought I was done with her until
She sat down close to me, and I
Looked at her lovely face, and I
Remembered how much I enjoyed
Being that close to her in those days
When she spoke to me. I try,
But cannot make myself acknowledge
That she doesn't want me, and I
Cannot not want her, and, so,
I write a poem which says, “You
Don't mean a thing to me,” and
Follow with one which declares
This nagging, ever-lasting love,
And hell begins to have an image:
Me, a sort of Sisyphus, condemned
To love a woman cold as stone,
Who wants no part of me, forever.
Noble? Yes or no? More likely
Merely pitiful. I do my best to put
Some distance between us, but she
Comes close, and draws me to her
As a magnet brings in helpless
Iron filings. Being one of those,
My hoped-for movement from
Her is reversed, and my absurd
Devotion to her gets a little old.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2017-02-11 at 00:42

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text