by Nancy Browne

Created on: April 09, 2011

A Fine Mess

This instant I am here,
With pen in hand,
Trying to lengthen a day,
To right a wrong,
To forgive and forget.

To give cold back to winter,
To seek warmth.
I am not eager,
To start a fresh life.
I only wish,
To step over the dust,
And take a nap.
Weary from over-time,
So that I can live among,
Fresh paint and new carpets.
It is not my home,
I only live here.

Taking up space,
Like everything that surrounds me.
This instant, poetry offers me the moon,
The faded one I see out my window,
Obviously it still loves me,
It shows up every night without fail,
But it is less appealing,
Showing its age, balanced there like,
The grey face of an old man,
Past all dreams – past all hope
I am poisoned with thoughts,
A weary brain sees no loveliness,
Only a silhouette of what use to be.
The sadness I tell myself,
Is not in the moon,
It is here with ink that falls bleak,
Clashing with unsettled burdens.
No use in blaming the moon,
It’ll  leave,
Same as everything does eventually.

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