Page 43 - January 2021
P. 43


                                       Dianne Forbes Compton

                                   Dianne Forbes Compton is a poet who resides in
                                                      Tampa, Florida.

                   We danced to schizophrenic music,                 or perhaps we should have sought

                   sycophants in love,                               a second opinion from
                   unsure where one mind started                     a doctor in the know—
                   and another one melded                            one that wouldn't wilt
                   into the us                                       from criticism
                   we thought we could become.                       too long left undigested.
                   We performed a luscious tango                     We lined up drinks like they
                   and communed to the music                         were soldiers from Thermopylae
                   as if we were born to it                          and finally—finally—
                   and perhaps we were--                             the horn section gave up
                   [or perhaps not.]                                 so we could go home
                   The days meandered their way through              in un-nectared silence, alas.
                   the lost forest we inhabited                      [The fairy godmother must have
                   and pills become a reason to                      been drinking bathtub gin that year.]
                   mete out injustice                                Silence imposes a resolute pause
                   to those who would not waltz.                     while we remake
                   Life became a cacophonous
                   blend of incredible pleasure--                    unfettered claims to injustice—
                   but you left behind                               Already damned--

                   the wilted daisies                                a yet unknown,
                   that sat in a vase far too long.                  future carpet is trod too far upon, anon,
                   Perhaps the music needed to change—               yet why, i will never know,
                                                                     i still miss you

        litterateur                            3                                          january 2021
   38   39   40   41   42   43   44   45   46   47   48