meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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Arrival

We sat in a small restaurant,
Arbitrarily, penalizing each other
With mutually unyielding disavowals.
We were wading birds in familiar territory.
Our speech peppered with sad interjections.
The dialogue archaic, an attempt to recapture
The words and the poetry of the past.
Criminal, it seemed, that we could not see
What was essential to the whole.
So hard, it was, to be in need...
And to recognize that time
Was simply a donation to the needy.
Not long ago...
I was at the summit,
My life, green with possibilities,
A gem stone without knowing it.
No drugs, no deterioration.
Dancing with my heart nightly,
My feet suspended lightly over the neon floor.
Ready red lips and no excuses.
A Phoenix, the bird of lore, rising.
Arrived, yet continually arriving,
The units of life's pressure released,
With the joy of destiny straight ahead.
And now,
A forward rotation of the wheel to this...
In a small restaurant.
The menu is laid before me.
Across from me sits a man, the new devotion.
He says
I am too much for him.
It is not enough for me.


Meloo/ Tilt-a-World   Melissa A. Howells Copyright 2005 All Rights Reserved.


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Arrival