Oil and Vinegar -------------------------------------------
A Monday mourning: coffee stains
these weary tools of flesh and skin;
The oily drops of work wherein
I feel myself at loss again.
And as you wake, do you recall
your dreams before this living starts?
The oily stains of teardrops; all
the broken lines of broken hearts.
With every look away, I find
the meaning in my thoughts obscured.
My ego fades with every word-
my vision blurred; my passion blind.
But if I wax infinitive
we'll always never understand;
Precautions wane diminutive
yet fuel the care that stays my hand.
If comfort were this oily plate,
like vinegar, I'll run away.
But if you asked that I should stay,
I'd walk with you 'til doubts abate.
The outcome of a struggle's just
the creaking of it's moving parts;
But every tired machine will rust
and seek the oil of waiting hearts.
It's such a melancholy poem of meaningless life until your last stanzas--my favorites--
"The outcome of a struggle's just
the creaking of it's moving parts
but every tired machine will rust
and seek the oil of waiting hearts."
:) This is my favorite stanza...it's beautiful. Unfortunately, if you hate sappy compliments like most people, or fortunately, if your ecstatic to get any comment at all, I can find nothing criticizing to say after scrutinizing the entire thing, and all in all, fantastic write.