What a bitter to-fro catastrophe
Spoken cleanly on the tongue
And yet lost all the same
When the silence draws in.
When we riddle we wonder,
When we’re frank we’re insane,
When honest we falter,
When coaxed we begin
To speak truths much less happy,
Because in spite of ourselves
We enjoy what we splinter
And treasure the blame.
We sit on cold nights
And prey for the warmth,
Yet were we to find it,
We’d always want more.
Such is the parallel
In our frivolous games,
Do not entreat me to comment,
I have nothing to say.
Blame one on the other,
Or find me a thing,
I like life when it’s crooked
Because then it’s a game.
Mathew Lewis
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cardiac-anthropology/
