Words are funny things, especially when they work in tandem. Last night I wrote a poem, and I let my wife read it this morning to judge if I should let anybody else see it or not. I wrote it with a specific scene in mind. My wife read it and interpreted it very differently from how I wrote it. I haven’t told her what I meant with it, and I don’t think I will. It’s really a terrible disgrace when readers aren’t allowed to draw their own conclusions.
To The Gods of GraceLess Escapes: A Toast
Trick me with your merry ways!
Never a man did I meet before tonight.
Never a woman.
The night! It calls! It sings! It beckons!
Icy black fingers creeping out from beneath the pudding
Yes! I’ll go. I’ll come.
To you my blushing bride three years dead tonight!
I come! I venture!
Wait on me, young footman.
Be easy ‘til the Dawn, it breaks our night in twain.
Alas! No time! We haven’t the time to make a cordial farewell.
To bed! To sleep! To Death and then awakening.
Marjorine! Marjorine, my love I cannot repay you.
My host! How quaint, the Porridge of our evening.
No wonder, no excitement.
Yet it fills the belly all the same.
To sum! In short! The Port was excellent.
Away I fly! But not without thanks.
To the Hospital of your home! Adieu.