He was forty-five years old by the reckoning of his own tall tale. And I was twenty-two years too young to understand it’s long winded braille.
And yet, still fly off!
Now seventy years plus and a little less now realizing that this same tale as told so far back in seventy-three. Was not really that well-versed in what it pretended to be.
That something affecting my vanity too deep as an easy way out.
All those absolute Last Tangos ever since before their passion willed out.
Those ‘she’s‘ before ‘ayes‘ now incredible to have once found but then lost.
An entire Zoo filled with female dichotomy of folly and love that turned dross.
Each one in turn a plague upon pretense of yet another one a better and a bit more.
In ninety-six yet another sad foray into despair that I so much desired to restore.
But now 3x plus three since that original brew.
To find one’s self alone and seule as if nothing then known had ever been true.
That old tale’s example of fine line betwixt existence and farce.
Became an old threadbare sail which has long since become parsed.
No more sand left to run through the fingers to fit mine own grasp.
Just bitter memories of some other’s bottled venom and bitter chested asp.
This old papier mâché mask long ago crumbled by too many strife’s.
This knowledge of art over reality now bought by the entirety of one life
A single moment without any pity to expose all the fear
Revealing that play of who was but not, yet had been all along here.