Blame It On Basketball

Guided by the pewter prophets,

with far-from-innocent eyes,

pointing toward a promised land.

Not a mean fibre in my body, until basketball. 

Not an exclusive gene in my pocket, until submerging. 

How did the card-carrying member of the mutual admiration society 

go so far, so wrong, so beyond human touch.

Pulled between the visceral and the supernal,

far beyond synchronicity. 

With the end always in mind

Blessings bestowed as delicate tortures.

Paying forward the pain, long before requited

then by deception retracted on 

an irresistible path to repay 

the leavings of the 

completely loved out, 

smooth-soothing slash,

slicing thin as slivered ice

filled beyond the brim,

flamed out of all value 

in an underwater vault

buried beneath without remorse.

Yet, prostate with gratitude 

for nerves laid bare before the alter,

to be offered up into oblivion,

until nothing is left but to surrender

to a hate that has to be as large as the hurt

of the memory of all lost love

to fashion a cradle of forgetfulness, 

to bury at the beginning, 

to have never loved, 

to have never been tender.

With the mornings first light

among the strewn and dismembered,

a detached hand raises to implore,

wishing to then be gathered in.

Loren M. Lambert © February 14, 2014