~
some dates cut us to the bone,
yearly scabs picked raw that
time does not heal and guiltily
we cannot let ourselves forget,
anniversaries loom benignly
like patient indolent spectres
until cometh their hour they
show the cards they have to deal,
birthdays are but devious
friendly thieves that steal our
vigour piecemeal and thus sated
sink back to their shadowy past,
and then the bully boy red letter
days all bloodied knuckles and
loud mouthed cries,
they shout when their hour
has come and leave the spoils
of celebration for us to sweep
*
© GRS 11/26
