Times like this.
A line floats beyond grasp;
at tongue’s tip but too far from lips
or pen to save.
It scurries to shadows,
like diseased vermin;
hides behind inconvenient walls,
close but out of reach,
mewing and chirping;
reminding that no other line,
should another bother to come to mind
today,
tomorrow
or another day
will do so well,
be so good,
as the one that got away.
Perhaps I should retreat to rhyming poetry,
hide my mediocracy
behind dusty, classic forms.
Heroic couplet?
Dadum dadum dadum dadum da-ay
Tado tado tado tado ta-ay.
Dadoo dadoo dadoo dadoo da-be
Tada tada tada tada ta-be.
Weary sounds.
Worn boots stomping concrete streets;
marching behind Nostalgia’s baton;
parading to remember hell as glorious;
to summon sense of life whetted clear by fear of death;
to recover for a moment black elation faded
by years of day in, day out , banal comforts;
blurred by responsibility mundane as Monday.
No other line that comes to mind today,
tomorrow
or another day
will do so well as the line mewing
and taunting in the shadows,
as the one that got away.
© 2012 Chrome Poet