spes ultimum

Palpable, fantastically round and matte,
Like a ball that she threw, and you didn’t catch
It slips through your hands, tips of fingers, falls flat.
A crooked merry-go-round, a mad game of fetch.

An orb on the ground dully reflecting the sun,
The world is unfocused, and your eye can’t seem to adjust.
You pull it up close, you hold it away in the light -
Casting no shadow, impenetrable, as if always covered in dust.

It’s cold to the touch - she didn’t hold it for long;
Too small for your palm, but a little too heavy for hers.
You throw it right back. She catches. The game carries on.
Until you suddenly catch or until she no longer infers.

Almost caught it again, the tips of your fingers are white.
To hold is more frightful than dropping - “last time”
The domes of your sweat drops reflecting the sun twice as bright,
The orb on the ground means one more throw, one more dig in the grime.

All muddy and tired, your velvety shoes crusted up,
You watch the matte ball through the air, as it covers the sun,
And this time your arm doesn’t reach, you don’t jump like a pup.
   The solar eclipse of your hope,
   the penumbra of pain,
   the dusty reflection of love
   Are finally letting you know - she has won.

She won yesterday, she’s winning, tomorrow she’ll triumph again.
You say, you don’t play to conquer, your game rules allow no defeat;
But the moonlight reflected is sharper, and somehow, right there, right then,
You’ll know. And you’ll stop. And go home.
             And take muddy shoes off those tired feet.

14.02.2018