MILLICENT BORGES ACCARDI But in the End, One Tires of
But in the end, one tires Of the rapid-fire questions, The sordid explanations, The long and treacherous Cliffs to climb, the days full Of the corners of whys And hows, not to mention The muddy reasons you want To bury in the yard like a long Lost turtle or a message, written In code then thrown into the ocean. In the end one tires of making Plans and apologizing, of always Always being the good one, Or the person who does the right Thing. Despite misgivings. It’s not the truth one is after but What is life like away from resolution Apart from the land of negotiation Or compromise. My and your thoughts Dispelled into a process without end. In short there is only so much You can take and do, especially When there is no one else pulling On the other side of the rope to keep You standing up in the game. On the other side, it is impossible To heal and work through fault Lines of belief. And, heck, even To argue when you are the only One doing it, the energy to hang On when someone else is tearing Away at the internal construction Of your very soul, rephrasing history, Even small things you said Are twisted like wild vines in an alley, Flowers left untended, morning glories Turned to weed, becoming ugly purple Bruises entangled with each other, Trapped with no room to blossom.
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