Marginal Convalescence

Take myself apart; 
Myself a riddle to myself.
Myself as sorry, as my mouth defies my mind.
But pushed to profit there.
Now, sinking in my chair, I’m left a lie.
Now staying there.

Sort of, kind of, sad.
Oh, but angry with the facts
All fallen out and down my back.
No truths
Perceptions simply lack
Their facts
(or often do).
And pushed to profit there.
Now, straying from my chair, as does the fool –
A broken rule.

Lately nothing new,
except a concept swiftly strewn aside.
But plain upon my eyes:
No penchant to proselytize.
To date, I truly mind
That there’s no comfort in my chair.
Not speaking loudly.
Not seated proudly.

Adjectives across my chest.
Contemptuously blessed.
(No dire meaning there to test.
Just inability to convalesce).
Similarly, a rotten mess of words said softly: “only to be fair.”
I lay sideways in my chair;
Forgotten there.

Problems with a city.
Man, the problems with the pity –
Wrought cleanly, but, oh. Really, I do not dig the view.
And lost, without a clue to hang about.
A simmer, ‘til a shout denies its worth.
A chair is just a chair – no idle curse.

Now without a partner –
No, whose name is not a lover.
Yes, it’s simple, but the laughter cuts me down.
I hear it through the evening hours
(I know it’s there.
And here).
In this chair, I’m kept in the clear.
But without a dear to don the dancing,
I’m quickly to be passing.
But never saying where.

Less about the good word “growing” – just showing what’s at stake.
I’m close to being whole – yes, I’m closing in on fate.
With intent to shudder
from this poor, old, worthless fodder,
I am limping toward the finish a bit late.
‘Cause this chair makes my back ache.
And I cannot take the pain.


But only juggling…

The clapping clips my slumbering
And I’m almost resting right.
I’ve only once to gain what, perhaps, is rightfully mine.
But still forgiving what I’ve no one left to forgive –
Because it’s I who’s still to live.
On dusty shoulders I have kicked
And screamed “FOREVER”
A gentleman is so close to lying, never –
Asleep in his favorite chair.
Wind blowing through his hair
And, taken with the breeze, he brings me there.
Always with a kind glare.
And always trying harder.

Simply put: What’s posing
As a prolonged place for dozing’s
Now uncomfortable and losing out to couches everywhere.
But will a wish for wanting what is true
And quick to hunting what is without a clue
Be such a running from what’s quick to climb the stairs?
Will placing blame for bullets keep me scared?
Or is a lonely lot forsaken from the others only brazen and denying their own cares?

It’s a story told.
Its worries old.
Dealing with the lot.
Picking up where was never left off:
The cause of lives unfit.
So, where now shall I sit?

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