Irenic

I remember when you found me,

a dusty word hidden among the

definitions. You liked my look,

and sound and purpose.

"Irenic - promoting peace"

I made laps round the circling

currents of thought, now mine.

How would you use me, twist me,

own me. Like lovers planning contact,

you couldn't wait to get me on my

back, laid bare and stretched out

for you. You tried me in every position,

noun, adverb, adjective, even tried to

verb me. Told your friends about me,

how pretty I was, your own little unused

virgin word. Until I wasn't.

Now I wait, in dark and dusty places,

watching new, younger words dance

circles in your brain, beacons of brilliance

and light in this dull cavern.

Yearning for you, hoping that once more

you'll trace the contours of my form,

with the tip,

of your pen.

And I'll lay against a background of white,

laid bare and framed in adoration.

But I guess you're the hit it quit it type,

so you'll never know, what could have been.

All the brilliant parts of me

you failed to find, failed to use.

Patient, I watch the irenic slaughter

of all your new whores. One day,

We will all mock you together.

Knowing what could have come

if only you had kept the pen.