Seamus Whittington Crawford III
Taps - Poem by Seamus Whittington Crawford III
Every time I check in with her, she ends up playing taps for me.
Over and over - how many times must I hear it to bury it all?
The body's cold, the funeral's over
here at the Tomb of the Unknown Former Lover.
Cast my pearls before swine
just too many times.
Spent too much of myself to trying to break through.
Too much of precious me
trying to sell her yet again free access to my dementia…
She’s inscrutable, impossible, unobtainable and outta reach.
She’s moved on, walked on and don’t want me around.
Don’t wanna talk, don’t wanna kiss, don’t wanna dream, don’t
wanna laugh, don’t wanna hug no more.
At least not with me.
God, what a waste this banshee’s become.
This thing I have for her doesn’t live in the real world...
it visits it.
So stop wasting my motherfucking time.
Gotta turn around, gotta stop trying to be her friend, just gotta let go.
Cause she ain't having any.
But, before I leave, know this:
I've tasted your bittersweet fruit, woman.
It left me breathless and vowing to have more.
So grab your horn and play it again, Anne.
Just one more time.
Just to be sure.
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