The Paradox of Self

a split lip awakens and remembers

bare knuckle deep into the

wastewater of past haunts

evoking that fond, sick memory

of the fanciful martyr, someone

that someone accidentally

took notice of in a lifetime

of imagining the hero, though

always the victim, a pale reflection

an always almost but never quite

there, a myriad of self-fulfilling

self-indulged never self-reflecting

never enough yet somehow more than

tirelessly spitting into the wind as if

it’s really necessary to remind oneself

of the failures that dot the smug

lifeless determination that despite

the beatings knows nothing other

than to persist in spite of itself

39 comments

  1. Aww, man. Been there! Really like this one, River.
    Also, I love the opening imagery, and wonder if you could tie some of that back into the ending? Just my 2 cents!
    Feel free to take it or leave it! Nice work!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Sorry for the late visit, River, I’m only able to drop into the blogsphere periodically at the moment. But I really felt this one, every word so beautifully crafted, as ever. I love ‘fond, sick memory of the fanciful martyr’. Wonderful verse.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Yes, indeed. Apologies, I’m not in the blogsphere much at the moment owing to too much going on, but I’ll always catch up if I’ve missed out on your mesmerising verse.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Oh no, sorry to hear that, River. Blogging is quite a commitment though, and sometimes life gets in the way. So I understand how you feel – I’ve been there too a few times. But I must say your amazing verse brings a welcome dose of class and genius to the blogsphere.

        Liked by 1 person

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