Splintered

We gave up our dreams to fumble at adulthood;
playing house isn't what it used to be.

Our low bed, littered with the week's routine,
was sulking underneath.
It has tired of the relentless cycle of sheets.
The green ones don't look like spring anymore;
only the one that passed: faded, and old.
And the flannel is no longer warm;
its worn out childish comfort now plain immature.

This trudging of the banal,
this endless march of inconsequence,
our illusion of the grand scheme falters under its gravity.
Only frames of domesticity, of ruffled canine fur,
and the reminder of a smile frozen elsewhere;
it buckles under the promise.

Here is life as I would have given you,
sparkling and easy, and devoid of questions.
Here is life as I would have wanted,
clean of choices, and clairvoyant.
Here is life, hurtling onto the landing
padded with dust, and fragile of bone.

Here, where it wouldn't have mattered, did I declare,
Here, I shall remain, a splinter in its eye,
for visions like these are worthless.

(Originally posted on Feb. 23, 2007)