If only such things could be
like my old regrets grown
gracefully into wisdom,
then twilight would be free
of these reflections
and mercy would be
my resting bed.
But your memory that I wrestle
is as slippery as Socrates.
It poisons me instead
like a dart in a hemlock heart.
Oh my Hippocratic hypocrite!
You heal by inflicting wounds
in the shape of question marks
any sane man would despise.
If a shaggy heart signifies endurance,
then count me among the wise.
As Plato himself once said:
“Everything beautiful is
also difficult.” But how
could he have surmised
this singular difficulty
of your own two eyes?
And so, as I close you
like a philosophical surprise
between the painful pages
of my mind, I wonder if time
shall do the rest…
turning your cold logic
into dust at last.
More at http://about.me/dklawitter.