Five, Twenty-Eight

I just remembered the fact that I was once innocent.

Youthful, craving love not lust,
and fighting longer than my peers,
and belligerent for intimacy.
A Warrior for Real Love.

Now,
captive by the enemy whom I’ve surrendered to,
whom I’VE SURRENDERED to,
whom I was STRONGER than, for a time,
who tells me there’s no second chance to go back to the start,
I believe him.
He’s truthful.
My body is weak and incapable
of reconciliation with my past,
deprived of energy, of motivation, of hope.

And I tell everybody lame excuses,
how it’s not so bad,
how it’s better than what I had,
as I convince myself that I am where I wanted to be.

Then YOU arrive on the scene,
captive, no
captivated by the disenchanted mirage.
It tricked you, but
no excuses.
YOU were weak.
YOU were famished.
YOU can’t blame the mirage.
YOUr mind created it!
Because your fragile body folded.
You.
Folded.

But alas, another mirage.
Your face in the water,
the conversation partner…
Another figment.

And the possibility for real dialogue,
for real progress,
for outside input
to balance my own obvious inadequacy,
for pilgrimage to the past
eludes me.
AGAIN.

And the flood of clarity,
of potential for re-innocence
drowns, not cleanses,
my aching soul.