#caesurae

quand’ry, lest I solve it for you; Wide open

release is what I seek, not untoward

mock’ry, yet I feel a coming omen.

Bereaved, you assume my delight is made

relapsing back to manipulation

to see, within the depths of your dismay,

collapsing as waves in undulation?

Verily though, to you I do require

but a moment in order to beseech

warily; hidden within your desire,

thrust deep into a well of mired speech:

Would it be enough to ease my sorrow

if he could stay with me ‘til the ‘morrow?

In the time you were away, I drew arrows like breath to lungs, 17 strokes ran rivers through sordid caesurae, and I was not alone. I drew daring like tongue to lips, 32 scars forged short-cuts through fault lines, and we were not apart. My strength does not rest in remembrance, in refrains lost meaning through repetition. Why would I look back on yesterdays static and finite, when so many tomorrows are yet to be? In the time you were a way, I realized -- we have all the time in the world.

I know, I know. You really loved your third grade teacher and took to heart all of the things s/he taught you. And sometime around there you were given the advice to end all future development in writing--namely, "Commas are like breaths of air. They belong in the sentence where there are spaces so you can take a breath."