A Few Words on Behalf of Rashness

At what point does prudence turn and bite,
Become a rabid dog, and “good sense”
Become resignation first, and, later,
Hopelessness? I worry that yours turned
And bit you, and the once-great dreams
You had were neatly folded long ago,
And thrust into a sack, which you have labeled
“Not to be,” and even lesser dreams are
Shunned as doubtful, not what you expect,
And hopes of any kind only belong to your
Most silly friends. You have all that you'll
Ever have, and I, who gave myself to you,
Am doubtful, shunned, or even placed inside
The sack of not-to-be because it would have
Been imprudent to accept my love.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 93 times
Written on 2017-08-18 at 01:04

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