Your dubious optimism eased cynical crowds.
Enemies never scoffed at your selfless behavior.
Wholly compassionate, something on your mind required perfect words.
Talking incessantly while gripping everyone’s attention.
Your life was petaled, parted rosiness.
Always enough time because you understood every corner of a curve.
Freedom can be buried deep into wet terrain.
Nothing is undesired, it died in your death.
Disapproving hatred exists in silence
as grotesque puppets have left the realm
in painless, unravished emptiness.
Unimaginatively you’ve released me
with uncertain indifference outside a silent field
where souls touch interiors of another’s scorn
to smooth out their jagged edges.
Your loveless stereotypical course is inconsistent,
beneath everything which will never assure me of its resolve.
I chose Paul Eluard's "At The Window", which was a challenge to mirror.
Red Wolf Journal Spring 2014, and a fresh start
2 years ago