The Comedy of Fate


These old bones crackle in the dawn;
winter’s dogged trial begins anew.
If one could only grasp a truth,
sift some spurious myth for change,
give the sun a name,
Apollo of the Youthful Gaze;
instead of this blank mask
troubling time;
a world bereft of muses,
its fate a momentary gasp
in ancient forgetfulness.

My cat’s intelligence repeats the gestures
of her kind, the daily rituals
of purr and meow; her absent stare,
an aristocratic silence
and disdain; her tribute
given, she stares the sun down,
blinking, blankly;
indifferent to the deathly light,
she licks the obligatory crumb
from her shadowed paw.

The diffidence of day follows me
among the rambling conversations,
as if the world was tired of bickering
with its foolish progeny; and, I,
like some fragmentary gamble, –
an unbidden groping in the dark –
communicate my secrets
to the great unknowing; a spiteful
message, unexpected, an accidental
comedy in a galactic farce,
the rules unknown, lost
among a less than enthusiastic host;
their encircling gazes
relaying the only truth
belatedly I can receive – this postcard
from nowhere,
an ironic note from no one
and everyone: “Paradise is lovely;
come for a visit, want you?”

– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

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