Sunday’s Songbird
I forget every
mistake
of fortune
to cut man-made disasters
in my flesh
Damned be the Lord of Light
should my eyes
not adjust
come inevitable dark
Move over, humble soldier,
as I trek
the mountain of
my destruction
At summit’s eternal sunrise,
heal each morning’s songbird
with my
predator
of vain delight
Each day is a song
that only a lucky few
may sing
Today is not my day.
Retrace, Repeat, Retrace
Suppose a now when the old
days were new, before paint’s
drip deluged
over that canvas
of tomorrow. Sidesteps and
sidetracks, minus the wanderings.
Before you found out
our hopeful hare’s leaps don’t
compete with the incessant
tortoise’s crawl.
Before see-you-laters became
goodbyes and a nice-to-meet-you’s
passing shackled you there. When
what could be became what never
was. Those steady silent years,
when each rise fell slowly to its
repetition. And now looking back
is a 360 degree turn. We’re
all just treading the waters of
second chance somedays.
Bionote
Joe Albanese is a writer from South Jersey. His poetry can be found in 2017 issues of Calliope, Concho River Review, Glove, Lowestoft Chronicle, Sunset Liminal, and other publications. His first novel, "Caina," will be published in 2018 (Mockingbird Lane Press).
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