What, exactly, am I to understand
by John Weber
about your behavior?
There’s a desperation in your movement
that belies your grace
as you scan the pub for your savior
with that smile-cemented face.
My glance shifts to new perspectives,
discontent cycles anew
when trying to seek meaning in the
cheery curve of your eye.
I used to long to get to know you
before losing all reasons why.
In a tight spiral, you slope
down to the bare ground,
hooting with curses to quake
the isolation of the room.
That auto-pilot of thought unsound
lingers beyond your mere gloom.
Perhaps, if our age wasn’t so
cursed with convolution
we’d find some way to share
more than just snappy patter
or faint whispers of lush solutions,
taunting modes which don’t matter.
Instead, I’ll watch from my distance,
scanning your weakened force.
Somewhere within lies a dormant resolve
capable of vaulting you to distinction.
I pray that substance paves a course
before you flirt with extinction.