My hands ache along the fingers, no strength
To grasp the rock face even to maintain
My position, much less move to the next
Fissure, the next slight breach in the mass which
Looms above me in perpetuity.
I am so tired of even the pretense:
The daily happy chatter over lunch,
The concerned anguish around work travails;
Not that love does not surpass all of this,
Yet I wonder some days if there’s not more.
Desire drives me into a discontent
With the days offering, disguising true
Happiness behind the glamour and shine
Of the spectacle, the omnipresent
Crush of the other’s clichéd narrative.
Not that my sad tale is any better,
Albeit a more familiar story
To me than the ones which rub against mine;
But even so, I fear the textured rock
Between the cracks in the conversations
That flow in a seemingly endless rush;
Beneath the whisper of my voice talking
Telling myself again not to let go,
To let the blood soften the fractured rock
Beneath the tips of my aching fingers.
(July 2010)
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