My115thDream

Dave's Mental Meanderings
2004-04-13 02:29:09 (UTC)

Poem - "Somebody's Got to Show Their Hand"

This place ain’t the same and I know it too well,
But still I seem to adhere
To the stitched-up seams and second-hand dreams
And the glories of yesteryear.
I sometimes yearn for a blissful return
As if it would do me some good,
But if placed on the brink, I can’t help but think,
Would I if somehow I could?
When glancing back, the one thing we lack
Is a grim respect for the fire,
We’ve all been burned but few of us learned
That nostalgia should bring not desire.
Just look at me now and we’ll both wonder how
I can find in my mind a complaint,
I’d surely be jaded of what I’d find to be faded
By peeling away the fresh paint.
I’ve got everything now that I once wondered how
I could ever hope to possess,
Why look to the past when it pales to compare
With what once was a long shot at best?
And now in my hands are the tools and the plans
To pave my road for the ride
From the lonesome day blues and the radical views
To a prettier place to reside.
I’m down in the groove and matching each move,
A companion in action and thought,
My idealistic efforts, I find,
Surprisingly weren’t for naught.
She waits by the door for what most will ignore
And adores what most cast aside,
I offered her nothing but a smile in the dark
And she dared to look deeper inside.
We’re now in farther than either had guessed
From what first impressions revealed,
Now I’m joyfully reeling from the beautiful feeling
I can’t forever conceal.
But such an admission is a perilous mission
That would lead me out on a limb,
At the mercy of words so simple and sweet
But not to be said on a whim.
Rewards in the wings were waiting just when
I thought I had crossed the line,
But those chances I took in the past never shook
The mast on this vast ship of mine.
Could I weather the storm in the finest of form
If I told to her face without shame
What my heart’s been saying while painfully playing
This pitiful waiting game?
Would she crawl to the corner and cringe at the crime
I committed by losing my sense?
Would her eyes turn shifty and drift to the side
As she puts up her strongest defense?
Would she honor her vow and refuse to endow
A mystery man with that blessing
That speaks of the highest affectionate form,
The affliction of which I’m confessing?
But what, in fact, if she chose to retract
Statements made as a cover
For deftly concealing her true hidden feelings
For this poet laureate lover?
This surely would fit in the puzzle whose pieces
I’ve been patiently putting together,
But strength of convictions I might find to be fiction
Does little to ease my endeavor.
But alas, the same goes for signing my name
On seventeen stanzas of rhyme,
If the words are to slip from her sweet loving lips,
They first must escape from mine.