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Poetry: Futility

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Lapsus Memoriae



The week has been a long one,
even the year, the decade,
this life spanning nearly
a half century but one.

Rain gathers in the crook
of an exploded Friday.
We used to say: thank God
it is Friday, day of release,

redemption of all weekday sins,
to be born into the weekend
a squalling babe, innocent
and clean. Pink. Smooth-skinned,

untouched. By anyone.
Even so and in spite, knowing
it was but illusion, wide
of the mark, always

just, and our lapsing
into the pleasantries of self
deception, an error
of flawed happiness.

Now refuted. It was laced,
it seems, and in retrospect,
with errors and slips, delusions
and momentary hallucinations,

a meandering of the lonely
hanging out, side by side,
gazing into the same
vacancy.

Learn more about this author, Zinta Aistars.
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