“… the (kind)of love he’s s[own{-}] …”

And the (kind)of love he’s tried to sow,

and own-

kind,

and – wrong or right – bewrite, 

is a kind of love which focussed on the other 

in all the other’s splendid soul.

And whilst that is good, 

and the whirled needs so much more of this, 

there has now come a 

time when the seat proud of 

reclining, loving of those others but lazy around 

self, must give in to reality and mani{fest-

[r]ivalled} truth:

for the truth of the natter is that chats of condolences, of doing 

for everyone as expert in matter,

of providing that support – those 

taxi numbers; 

those ideas;

those ALTs to DELETE;

that listening tear in sudden utter meltdown;

the eavesdropping suggestion, awful ear-

wigged like comely 

homely barrister,

always on the lookout for something that’s cooking …

… and I love so many people, and I now cut out so many others …

… and it’s getting so close to the core of my life.

And so a reversal of fortune will take place this shortly: 

he will brutally snap the ultimate trust

she had in a whirled of curious bless.

And he wonders how he has come to this paper of trace;

and he wonders when she turned away from the flower

she once gently had been:

in his presence, sometimes unseen.

And that “when” does truly haunt him: 

his illness clear marking 

not only him and his times but the people

he’s most loved, incapable anew

of appreciating his 

now

rhymes.

And the signs he has distributed, like unsatisfactory 

dew, dampening incompletely

a dawn darkly 

dusked,

will have to

lead to quite another being 

he never felt he’d be:

the tough family-stuffing 

man of such silents;

a leader of terrible global troop.

And so that’s how he feels:

and so that’s why so long:

and, in this way, goodbye and remember do eventual 

become his

never 

for-

get.

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