Dilettante<\/p>\n
You buy the used books to treasure what others could not,
\nbut scavenge for the comfort fumbling away, as if
\non a fishing pole, or the newspaper read by the whirlwind.
\nBite your fingertips, go ahead\u2014you cannot gnaw away all
\nthe years your palms have wrought, the indented
\ncircles like tree stumps. How can you tire of drink that you
\ncannot touch to your lips and still blame the glass?
\nA heart, christened it your own, probably with a pen and
\nsignature, in your shirtsleeves\u2014that heart, impending
\nupon a string, taut to the door so none may enter\u2014
\nhow can you yourself flee your very heart\u2019s domain?
\nPull the earth away from beneath you, yet not where
\nthe Vox appears from: certainly not much there.
\nBut never you mind, give it time and
\nall those collective carpets beneath your feet will
\nbe all the earth you recognise. There is an unearthly
\nsound as a constant, pronouncing words of shelter,
\nthough you cannot witness them at play.
\nCandidly, of petrified apologies, you enchant apathy
\nwith the lack of tongues, stomping out the
\nrhododendron ringing. Men were not sustained
\nto swallow the seas, but greed is the discreet
\nwallowing, rolling in your aloof grounds. Gaudy hands
\nreclaim the January sparks, new days that were
\nnever new before, given a time and place
\nyou could never present. Pallor, what a beautiful
\ncolour, matches your eyes, gashing the primroses
\nwith nothing but a hateful gaze.
\nHope for nothing in return, that is the greatest
\nreception. The irretrievable light on a player piano
\ncoated with dust; you never learned its sound, its performance.
\nThe air will not breath for you, flannel shirts
\nand open country where the emptiness was
\nyour elementary acknowledgement.
\nArticulated upon that fruitless academia, beads of
\ntears lost, your shards of selfish vengeance struggle.
\nEvery time you remembered, you would say you hated
\nthe world for every time you once loved it,
\nall those childish years ago.
\nIncidentally, the cost was not yours to decide nor
\nyours to exchange from the bank. You would ask,
\nWhy isn\u2019t my suffering on my hands?
\nWhy would the sky have you here if it were not inevitable?
\nHonest to heart, if you could give anything in the world,
\nwould you have anything to give or take
\nsince it\u2019s all clogged and collapsible, clouding your mind?
\nNormality is not a charming place to call home, and the
\nblisters are but brittles boundaries; beyond the bivouacked
\nFirmament, confluence became your scapegrace.
\nLike a thieving wind, evasion a poor addiction,
\nyou are the season of tangled webs woven,
\ncathartic today, nostalgic tomorrow. Those November bruises
\nare not annual; to ease the pain, you say: Hand me down that
\nsolace from the top shelf, I can never reach it.
\nYou should not have to concentrate joy, let it come.
\nBeyond a resilient doubt, condemning your memories is
\nthe truant shape of melancholia. Thai candy, simply sweet\u2014
\njust the hope within calls salt to your eyes.
\nYou buy the used items to collect the hate of others,
\nand replace it with something new, though it is
\nrife with abandoned patience. The penance composed upon
\nthe haven of your home, hold it above your head,
\nlet the wind compel it from your grasp. Let go\u2014
\nthose pacific eyes were musing in the mirror for a reason.
\nStand your knees from your coiling in the corner,
\nthe room for improvement is next door, and it has
\nendless space for you to use. The dilettante,
\nviewed as the unstable, unchanging fool,
\nit is you who is always changing, but not for the world. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Dilettante You buy the used books to treasure what others could not, but scavenge for the comfort fumbling away, as if on a fishing pole, or the newspaper read by the whirlwind. Bite your fingertips, go ahead\u2014you cannot gnaw away all the years your palms…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":281,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10956","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10956","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/281"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10956"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10956\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10972,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10956\/revisions\/10972"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10956"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10956"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10956"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}