Shreds: “Correspondences”

Correspondences, stale, futuristically,
Slip through days long and the same,
And though I spread ‘em, o, artistically,
Pamphlets themselves can’t cure this bane,
For few have spoken with fiery might
That I ignite as I cry, scraping the pave
Of paper and graphite, scattered in spite,
In games that mere written jest enslave.

The hallway rejoices with me echoes anew,
Today, as I climb more distant and slow
To the murmur o’ wait that gentler doth strew,
Cruel still, the sound of the piano’s low;
Amidst the same gestures, thorns at me brow,
Thou say’st they’re mere unexpected scars,
And time’s course fills, ever so now,
My white tub with sinister bars.

Had I a pair of mystic wings,
Or like Icarus, but wings nonetheless,
Perhaps with mere ballistic flings,
To fall into thy hands, I’d confess;
For strength in such no writer claimed
Nor hath it been recited wide,
At the hour o(f)a headlong plunge_aimed,
None reach the crux where truths reside.