A blatant imitation of Rilke


Irving Elegy

Who amidst the hierarchy of angels
can help me falsify my life? Make it so
that I, from the beginning, cherished sage advice
offered, like garlands, to temple visitors but I,
never the believer, was the youth who snuck
out from the party and found amusement in
counting leaves on the trees, befriending,
or rather chasing, the squirrels, only to be
dragged by the ear when they noticed me missing.

Here I sit, half a decade, half a world
from that memory, drenched now in fell tears, and
recreated for solace as another day
pierces through the dark skyís cloudy thighs.
(Oh, how I wish theyíd abort this child)
The sun stares at me, and I
stare back, past itís brightness, past the day,
past the present itself down the long lane
life has become that I walk but as if
Iím in the wrong aisle at the supermarket,
or lost in an unknown street, and the same feeling pervades:
Iím not where I want to be.

Itís at about this age, they say, to marry.
Iíve realized love has nothing to do with it.
The long lane could be barely bearable with
someone to talk to. Love, Iíve found, begins
not from a spark or connection but a drive to cling
to whatever branch hanging out the cliff overlooking
the crevasse of solitude that looms beneath. But each
is a branch to the other, and are both so close
to falling that they clasp their palms shut tight:

Iíve seen the end of my life and I donít like it.
I refuse it but the voice I shout Ďnoí with
is turning from a loud roar to a quiet quiver.
I donít chase anymore. I sit and distract
myself from the dullness. I am addicted to this,
and Iíve yet to find a fault with that. Songbirds
arenít inspired. They sing out of habit. I write
poems and for the longest time I
didnít know what to make of it, but now
I know thereís no grand design. This is
just another way to waste my time as I
walk down this long lane. Angel,
Iíve changed my mind.




Poetry by Sameen
Read 51 times
Written on 2021-10-24 at 16:24

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