In a foreknowledge of my years I might have sighed:
Has it all come to this?
A walking out of doors, another goodbye?
Symbols of a pattern dance before my gaze
And I am unseeing.
Is the end prize emptiness in this tangled maze?
It seems to me now almost a style of life.
It mocking-mirror laughs
And throws down my failures - not woman, not wife.
They lay, gauntlet-challenge, offcast glove -
An old-fashioned style.
And I kick at this loathsome shell, once my love.
The dusk draws on in as the doors shut behind,
And the question unsolved.
So I take leave again, step on into the wind.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at: firstname.lastname@example.org