8 October 2005, 12:44 PM
Alone at the reservoir
It’s been a while.
Even so, I am tempted
to run away.
October has been kind,
but my southwestern blood
rears its head again, and
the chill in the air is
almost too much. Fantasies are
stripped away-
into reality I
plummet; from all I have
been accustomed to holding
true and good and tangible
I am removed.
All that is left is
cold.
I don’t know who I am
today; who holds the pen;
who longs for…
what?
I don’t even know
what she wants; I don’t know
how to ascertain her needs,
her desires,
her reality,
if it is, in fact, reality.
I am only cold;
both naked and far
from it; I take my leave
of this struggle- from which
I cannot take what it would
more willingly part withal,
except my life…
except my life-
accept my life
and its contentions; all
I cannot see or taste
or touch, but which drives
me nonetheless.
"You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal--except my life--except my life--except my life." From Shakespeare's "Hamlet", Act 2, Scene 2.
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