make whatever you like of this,
but know that it may, likewise,
make whatever it likes of you.
thrust and struggle and burn
loudly feign, but ever so quietly,
an attempt, in the corner,
through muted silence, to enunciate
struggle with the reason
why is it that one does so yearn
to take the difficult lesson
one cannot be brought to hate
twist and then don’t,
because of the can’t
and moreover, he will not,
exactly as they were never told
a question, wide-eyed, receives
the penalty of the question’s answer
and it stings, being cold and hot,
enough to make one shriek and pant
a perjured testimony, it will recant
a tortured, and elated dancer
flailing there, on the dance floor,
it joyously thanks and aching, grieves
the hatches all battened down
and lashed to withstand the wind;
the wind begs contritely for more
claims not to know instruction
the end result, ruby red and sore
scoreboard racked and tucked away
nothing else to buck, or smartly say
all done for the night, playing the clown
make it into anything whatsoever,
anything that you want it to be,
for it won’t be made into something
that it isn’t supposed to be already
it has always known what it is, steady
to be whatever he chooses to shape
to make it speak and twist and sing
if only it is able and willing to see
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
Kevin Trent Boswell 