She wrote down all his
follies, never seeing how
hard he was caring.
She wrote down all his
follies, never seeing how
I feel
a great deal
of melancholy
folly
going on.
It’s not fun.
But I’ll face the setting sun
and again soulfully yawp
like Uncle Walt
Whitman.
Carpe Diem.
Two friends
now stand at the same door
I had once entered
and exited, before.
One is heading out.
One might go in.
One is fleeing darkness.
One might embrace sin.
She who is leaving,
(as I also learned,)
knows the folly of entering;
knows evil should be spurned.
I will weep for joy as the one comes out,
and cry in anguish ‘til the other turns about.