Epitaph

 I won’t scream desperate cries

As I find the world to be round

Instead of flat.

The sky blue

Instead of clear.

And love devious.

For what I can’t control

Cloaks, then fondles

The innocence bare;

A reality stripped raw.

The curve of seduction,

Or life’s desires, a figure eight,

Will always recoil to deny

A union ideal and fanciful.

Thus, my cry is buried

In the discovery of self

Doomed to be alone.

© 2013 Max Zamor