It’s not like the old days when I’d take folks
on, milking heartbreak, drama of battles.
We’re all about the same, really. Revoke
our souls’ respect through selfish death rattles
of relationships. I’ve come to treat deceit
in this disturbed land like junked coffee grounds.
Toss that heartless energy in thick sheets
or garbage bags, lay them outside around
the alley. Let others fertilize their
flower beds with that crap if they want.
Bright sunlight’s becoming, it seems, a rare
commodity. I’ll walk away from haunts
of darkness. Pain may still storm me, and grief.
Tragedy. I just try to keep it brief.
Roger Armbrust
May 26, 2011
