Is That It, Tessa?

Immersed in love then death.
Is that it, Tessa? I’m flesh too.
So am subject to a barrage of ills
and gleamed sometimes with envy,
self-pity so becoming my own
scourge. When I’m not riddled
with a kind of electricity,
I’m my own worst nightmare.

Who goes there? Where’s there?
There where there’re ostentatious
sing-song voices jangling on trees.
I’d rather be solitary as she was.
But longed to be with another
who was like a slippage, remix of
own ecstatic self. Then night came
bewildered, bearing her away.

Prompt: On the topic of self, have you run out of things to say? That self that you call self– that’s called your character isn’t it? Given human imperfection, there’s self-glorification on the one hand (eek), and self-effacement on the other (eek), and do we seem to be hung up on both like a row of dead ducks? How noble is man’s reason when it is ultimately cut down to size on the greater mystery of life? What is certain is that humanity has much in common and it is on these universal values that great literature is made. I’ve an idea already for the next issue of the journal. Wrap up time, if you’ve got anything further to add, dear poets.


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