He Had Not Meant To Drift Poem by heather chernen

He had not meant to drift
But he could not avert the dreaded nature of his
Anarchic days;
The craven, inebriated nights
Wherein all manifestations of Time
Slipped away from him.
But Memory remained entrenched in the sensibility
He sought to dull, as did the cruel actuality of his youth,
A negation.

He was not as gauche nor as ugly as he feared,
And even in his better days, not as handsome as he wished!
He was a hybrid entity splintered at the nucleus, an estranged
Dark, stoic thing, and the intervention of others, upon the isolate
Continuum of a self embellished in an unameable lattitude
Solidified his existence to a fate that was never his;
For Narcissism had been his fatality and he knew it
And he had never meant to be an affront to God!

Still some amorphous presentiment which emerged,
Then retreated impelled him to nourish whatever innocence
Remained in him,
As if, that cruel malady
Could be ingested, assimilated,
Dart from the air into his trembling hand
If only he could coerce his muscles into consummating the task.

A response to a certain common loss
Compelled him to frequent one particular deviant tavern;
'A brother' was what he said he needed so desperatelly
To find;
How essentially insipid he must have been to believe
That ' a brother' could be found in that dank, windowless chasm.

Rendered ill, towards closing time, he wondered which had succumbed
Easier to the whims of the foul wind that encircled him;
Was it soul or physignomy
Or was his Nemesis the streets which he hit like clock-work
Moments before the days death
And dawn?

There was no plan to his existence;
He simply went with the tide
However frenetic the moon which made it dance.
Such was his life, an atrophied thing

Remotely adherent to his quest before his corruption,
To acknowledge, even in the most solemn silence
His inalienable right to be as he was!
He sought