MendedFences27

Outcast

Outcast

 

In the glove compartment of my life

She was my map when I was lost

and the warmth to cover my hands.

Her only importance was expediency.

 

She was a refugee, mourning the pogrom

from her homeward-facing porch

but her backslide dialogue gave her away

and she became the brunt of my exploitation.

 

Her desires turned like a windmill-generator.

She was  the direct current that attracted all of my static

and a lightning rod for my accusations

a battery storage for my invectives.

 

She was the least bittern on a wild-goose chase

the implausible pursuer of the impossible

a bewildered, bewitched, and can’t-be-bothered nester.

She was the little bird who told me it would work out.

 

And so, with the wisdom of a folk singer

on a crusade for world unity

she became the piper to my rat-like heart…

and it followed her to destruction..

Comments2

  • Goldfinch60

    Very good write.

  • Neville

    Had to read this I dont know how many times.. not because it was too deep, but because it blew me away..

    your fourth stanza is something else entirely... You sir are the only other person bar me I know, who has mentioned a bittern in such a meaningful way within a poem....

    Not sure why only me & Andy have left our visiting cards behind...

    Neville

    • MendedFences27

      Thank you for giving this one a peek and for commenting. I remember writing this years ago and doing so hastily. I'm not so sure just what the message was, but I did like my own wording. Maybe it's about personality clashes of those never meant to be together. Or nature's draw based on availability.Either way I feel it is heartless.



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