Parapraxis

Teetering on the tight rope –

Stretched between here and there –

Like prehensile tails my toes

Form around the cord, clinging

In the hope of love; of a moment

That will warm my heart and

Ease the torment that I live with,

Or the flash of divine intervention

That will cleanse everything I see

In one magnificent outburst

That, like x-rays, will penetrate all

That exists – all that has been created.

Youth has left me, dried and regretful

I call it nostalgia but it is more –

It is the recognition of what is lost

And may never be again:

Like the gentle breath of Robert

Who, on Sunday, died all alone.

Or blessed passion spent upon

Make-believe clouds of her desire.

The smoothness of youthful flesh,

The stamina of sprightly muscles,

The infinity of the far off horizon –

The ignorance of sybaritic youth.

Arms outstretched to balance

The passage from here to there,

Aching from ancient exertion,

From stiffened veins and skin.

In my mind there is the torment

Of a question – like so much more,

Never ever spoken or revealed –

That whispers incessant in my ears,

“Can I hang on long enough

To reach the end unbroken?”

Or will I fall – to be finally captured

By Hades regurgitating floor?