Alas Sylvia, Alas

when I think of all the success,

all the combined victories,

it becomes quite sad;

this constant reinforcement,

this continual need for validation,

this forever seeking never,

these abysmal highs and lows,

bouncing frantically back and forth,

hither and thither,

to and fro;

sometimes I know the truth,

sometimes I feel the superiority,

sometimes I see the mountain top,

lying on the path just ahead,

but there was never any pleasure

in reaching the summit;

it was always in the climb;

I suppose I would have found the point,

if I had ever read her poems

just like everyone else,

but now it remains lost,

as minute as a warm summer breeze,

as inconsequential as leftover

pumpkin pie;

alas Sylvia, alas,

perhaps next time;

and I’m still up here on this

big dark stage,

reaching for the moments

that slipped away,

rewriting history and time,

for the sake of mental clarity,

searching for flowing rivers

which never end,

riding yellow crescent waves

into fluorescent, uninhabited villages,

where bejeweled, double-headed pygmies

cry out for sacrificial virgins,

lying slain and abused

on parched sacred shores;

alas Sylvia, alas.

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