Poem: The Tragedy of Innuendo


The triumph of your life has outgrown
your harboring hands
and nest of nurture
like the slow inevitable miracle
of youth escaping your ailing body;
Your days no longer held in reprise—
revelry no longer felt in the senses,
they’ve grown as tasteless as sweat after a bath—
Livid like overgrown weeds on a mass grave,
the nights are faceless,
because the stars,
that wear the mitts of your unanswerable prayers,
have become the mirrors of your sad soul—
the tragedy of innuendo


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