Friday, September 25, 2009

Poetry Friday -- King Duncan

Who'd guess that I had so much blood in me,
or that I would disdain a tourniquet?
Out of the depths I cry, Lord, unto thee:
Let this thing pass from me -- but not just yet.

Who said that love is pleasure? Well, they lied.
It's nothing but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.
Myself I could not save, nor have I tried.
Someday it has to end -- but not just yet.

If this is love, who needs it? Not this boy.
And should I find myself again beset,
I'll muster all the force I can deploy,
put love to rout -- but not just yet.

I know I should grow up, calm down, forget,
and be more sensible -- but not just yet.

May 13, 1979