Morbid

You said my lines were morbid

the lines on the palms of my hands,

the frown that lined my face

the lines that lined my verse

and I would never amount to much.

 

I never meant to be morbid

I only wanted to be the lake

reflecting the trees on the other bank

the ivy laden walls quavering

on my clear palette of water

 

where I dipped a finger

to create a ripple of laughter

that echoed to the other side

and swam back to me

in concentric circles.

 

Circles that circle me now

as I take a deep breath

and reach for the benthos

into abyssal depths I cannot reach

Maybe I was morbid then.

 

Maybe I still am, even with

those uneven lines of birds in flight

the curls of the palm leaves

as they lean into the water

to alight on a lake lit only by the past.

 

The shade of the bougainvillea my refuge

where I still hide ‘neath the branches

and lie still: pretending

I cannot hear you announce

I never would amount to much.

 

I remember crawling into the duck house

pretending you could not see me

and there among the smell of shit and feathers

I found my soul would never heal.

Yes, I was morbid then.

 

Morbid and bound to my apathy

floating in the water, ears submerged

listening to the vaccum

that converts cacophany to peace

willing myself to float away

 

destination unknown.

Yes, you could say I am morbid still

but the lines I have drawn in my life

lead me to un-dead ends winding away from you

I never can amount to much.

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