Poem: Little Matters That Matters Little
Little matters that matters little.
Memories of messy massive pains
do dim with age, but still they
the sharpest shards of bright and shining things
once (and still?) held dear, too close,
and to the highest impossible standards.
Why, though, are the glimmers of
the past and precious so much more
than the light and life of the present?
If to the shattered tatter-rags you cling,
you will be cut,
You say, “Look! How I bleed! How I cry! How I suffer!”
You chain yourself fifteen times
in gossamer-fine thread and,
with the key in one hand and the lock in the other,
make passionate love to finely honed steel,
pouring out flood red tidings,
giving away your most personal power
to someone who
They to whom you grant that dubious boon
are not evil for the unwilling receiving of it,
no matter how much you wish it so…
…and you are not evil for leaving those streaks on the world…
…but in the end, someone has to clean up after you.
Is never fair.