Pipe organs of Destiny

In self image illusions

it was Arrogance that mislead me,

carrot of ego on a stick.

How far, after all, is caution from cowardice

while Despair is a lout, deserving everything it gets?

I might forgive persistent Weariness,

only really doing its job.

Indigo and sinister, a light that stays dim

in conceitful dreams, a delicate arpeggio

like the flickering interior of a sound.

Unnamed author of uncounted spontaneous whims,

or seeming to be anyway; it’s not like they matter;

those are the pipe organs of destiny I hear.

Just as great age for the first time finally,

although too late, grants release,

like that waltz danced decades sooner

with lady Pain in her Sunday best,

let me believe she had her way

so was thru with me but no,

I had seen the field close in

behind me, heard clang of gates,

yet she hangs on me like wet clothes in the cold.