The Lovelorn Complainant

For some…

The norm of aging is

Darkness knowing not of light

In the aging misbegotten soul,

Where the querulous Quilp,

Quavers erupt quaking quagmires,

Quivering quick sands,

Inviting quibbles and quarrels

Awash in queasiness,

Quackery and

Qualms.

Such is the norm

For those who may

Have ventured into love and lost.

Yet…

Others have dared to love and lose,

Discovering misfortune often equates

Into synaptic harmony,

Where aging reveals award for patience,

Like the essence of a fine wine

Imbibed at the right time,

Where a bathing ritual of mind

Begets the fermenting glory

Of joy reaching its proper time,

Swirling the taste of purpose.

Some allow the disappointment of a love experience

To cause life’s experience to feel short-changed,

Inviting wallowing in unfulfilled dreams

To become but more sour swill of accumulating waste.

For the lovelorn complainant

So much might be learned,

But like a desperate premature celebration,

One’s failure surrenders but another numbered claim ticket

In the heart’s pawnshop

Of desperation’s need…

Never to be redeemed.