Wasn’t Going To Write

Wasn’t going to write tonight – wasn’t ready to dare

the good vibes surviving eclectic crises presents to

mundane forensic appraisals – but there was death

hey; maybe that was the bottle of shiraz, with a few

sub-categories of th’ best, damn-good vintner’s fey

reflections on taste-to-boot – & flavour’s you’ve won

the right to consider you survived by knowing them;

but today we bested depths of delusion vested with

any other loom o’ modernity you’d wrest easily from

stupidity you bloomed into; & we actually grew wise

enough to see the argument isn’t ours to begin; it is

the reflection of the reflection of whom we’d want to

be – if we had the choice, & could see consequence

as an expression of whatever we’d ingest first, & be

guiltless; but I digress – I wasn’t going to write f’ any

exception – other than – not being able to – tonight

© 12 June 2017, I. D. Carswell