Self Portrait With Sour Grapes - Poem by Irene Mitchell
is to be played with reverence
in the mind's court,
a game of solitaire
with sonic underpinnings.
The court is limed. I play
within its boxes
until I am the only one left wondering,
What is the point
of rules which kill momentum?
Better to play on a sunless day
as eyes have no tolerance for strobe.
Brow should remain cool throughout.
The grayer the day, the higher the stakes
because darker, as later,
implies a boundless field.
Cunning moves are made
in the misty relevance of twilight,
one's own overcast moody empire.
In this realm there is no need for triumph
or fleeting reward,
just a small honorarium
for forging the fiord
when light was loved
and it did not hurt to falter.
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