The Reckoning

She says it was nothing
And he won’t lie to her
It would be treason to switch tactics now
Though his pleasure has jaundice
Insides a sick mess of syphilis
So the fiery game of kiss and stay quiet has turned against him
After years of commissioned psychotherapy
He could have sworn they were sitting in opposite chairs
But he now realizes: she always had him in hers

Sold for a spear, then pierced with it,
He carries his frame like a recycled trash heap
Down a willowy road
Whistling through the cracks in his face

The irony of it is
That you never know until it is too late,
Then you know too much.
Your skull can still rattle in its cage
But then it becomes accustomed to that prison
This is why you have nothing to worry.
For soon enough, you will know nothing.

Until others have experienced that break neck poverty,
Traveled sudden dead ends
Witnessed the hollow infant eggshell eyes
And hearts too frail to flutter at the hint
Of issues too large to swallow
While they are starving
By his reckoning fault
Out by the badlands
At the sharp steel gates of despair
Many will walk around, oblivious, never even wondering:
What is the bitter taste of betrayal?

@Copyright Sir Barrett 2007

Poetry