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Poetic License: ‘Forlorn Time’

By Staff | Jan 16, 2019

Editor’s note: Raised on Sanibel, Brodie Burns started writing poetry in 2013 after the death of a friend and began performing publicly in 2015. He writes about anything and everything, but leans most toward introspective content. Burns spent the majority of last year traveling with the ONE School for Artists, creating, performing and developing his artistry in Spain, Norway and Baltimore, Maryland. He currently resides in the Sanibel area. “Forlorn Time” is Burns’ first published poem. He will perform at the Open Mic on Jan. 23 at 7:30 p.m. at the Strauss Theater, at 2200 Periwinkle Way, Sanibel.

There is a forlorn facet to the passage of time

transition, adjustment, revision, decline,

and a newborn attachment, not yet ankle deep

to the memories in makeup that make up my grief

wading through wreckage to get to the grass

where the flowers can grow and the children can laugh

how I trudge through my trials, trying not to get sad,

but compulsive behavior makes me no good at that

when I lift up my hands and I raise my voice,

I cry out the truth that it’s all been by choice

and the choices I’m making aren’t in line with sense,

there’s no reason for retreating, I’m just daft and dense

so I steward my shame and let it share my name,

neglecting my house and accepting all blame

I stare at the man in the mirror with a firm, square gaze

aware that he’s changing and lost in a daze

how it costs concentration, how it runs me such stress

how I bolster and buckle; oh my dwindling duress

when I confess that my trouble might be exaggerated

my turmoil all toothless, my fight fabricated

I’m relieved and I’m troubled, a confusing coherence

at mundane boogie men with transparent appearance

who warrant a bevy of questions to my ever active mind

how many of my problems did I desire to find?

How many manufactured? How few a facade?

Am I mental, am I normal? Is my brain all that odd?

I need to take a deep breath, and let the truth keep sinking,

I’ve gone to bed with a leech and its name is overthinking

but time trickles away, yes, it tick ticks away,

forgive my critical self, I’d rather never waste a day

on solipsistic cerebral strings, but rather with repartee

and clever chains of charming, darling carpe diem ways