The Accounting

 

                         You have the advantage of me

                         The promise is inherent in your image,

                         But a pale hue of your perfection

                         Hastily conceived perhaps.

                         How else explain the coupling?

                         Mortality begins with conception

                         You let me die a little each day.

 

                         You poison the well

                         With the wine of inconstancy

                         Make me vulnerable to the erosion of faith.

                         It's a weary drip of each passing moment

                         Love turns and leaves a sour taste.

                         Cut me down in full bloom

                         The visual insult of decay

                         Is not compulsory.

 

                         Humility without the capacity to forgive?

                         Mercy was never a soluble commodity,

                         The face of piety

                         An inadequate catalyst

                         Never completely understood.

 

                         There is always sleep

                         And the passage of time

                         Or a tricky little item

                         The tinsel of pleasure,

                         Never mind the awakening

                         The cold sweat of the spirit

                         The hangover of the clock.

 

                         You part with your most precious possession

                         The capacity for wonder,

                         Stunt me with the inability to perceive.

                         Only a wisp of flame remains

                         And darkness still prevails.

                         I have paid dearly

                         So have my fathers and forefathers before me.

 

                         You have made the rules

                         We play it your way,

                         I am not unmindful of your position.

                         Do not give me the caroling angels

                         We have come to an impasse.

                         I shall rise above my fate

                         A peer of the realm

                         Offer my hand in friendship

                         For the gift, no matter how fragile

                         Still the gift.

 

                         But adoration?  I think not

                         The account is in balance.

                            

                                                           Jack Mashman

                                                           1984