Quixotic Poem by John Weber

What, exactly, am I to understand
        about your behavior?
There’s a desperation in your movement
        that belies your grace
as you scan the pub for your savior
        with that smile-cemented face.

My glance shifts to new perspectives,
        discontent cycles anew
when trying to seek meaning in the
        cheery curve of your eye.
I used to long to get to know you
        before losing all reasons why.

In a tight spiral, you slope
        down to the bare ground,
hooting with curses to quake
        the isolation of the room.
That auto-pilot of thought unsound
        lingers beyond your mere gloom.

Perhaps, if our age wasn’t so
        cursed with convolution
we’d find some way to share
        more than just snappy patter
or faint whispers of lush solutions,
        taunting modes which don’t matter.

Instead, I’ll watch from my distance,
        scanning your weakened force.
Somewhere within lies a dormant resolve
        capable of vaulting you to distinction.
I pray that substance paves a course
        before you flirt with extinction.