What a bitter to-fro catastrophe <br />Spoken cleanly on the tongue <br />And yet lost all the same <br />When the silence draws in. <br />When we riddle we wonder, <br />When we’re frank we’re insane, <br />When honest we falter, <br />When coaxed we begin <br />To speak truths much less happy, <br />Because in spite of ourselves <br />We enjoy what we splinter <br />And treasure the blame. <br />We sit on cold nights <br />And prey for the warmth, <br />Yet were we to find it, <br />We’d always want more. <br />Such is the parallel <br />In our frivolous games, <br />Do not entreat me to comment, <br />I have nothing to say. <br />Blame one on the other, <br />Or find me a thing, <br />I like life when it’s crooked <br />Because then it’s a game.<br /><br />Mathew Lewis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cardiac-anthropology/
