Poetry class #12

Avenge-meant

I didn’t.

All of us know, all of us:

From the seasoned, wise sage with interlocking limbs inhabiting his high hill,

To the truculent terrorist two-year old, tossing tantrums into hurricanes –

It is the scientific fabric of the universe postulated—sure as hell--by Newton –

We know that recriminations are the exhale that air the contrapositive.

We crave the settled and appropriate finish,

The backhand that whawps the volley back across the net;

Is not merely expected, it is needed.

It is justice’s congruity, parity,

The balance and the birth, the yin and yang.

It isn’t that we need it,

The universe herself screams for it…or tries to,

Yens to, convulses till she swirls in blue exigency.

There is a void – and nature abhors a vacuum –

Until the scorching aphorism rebounds.

Existence becomes a torture chamber of anticipation.

As when a cup is imbalanced precariously upon an edge,

The when becomes the focal point of unrealized presentiment and angst.

So, ready to reply, surfeited with his grody scurrility,

With his eyes wary, mine fervid,

 I simply

Didn’t.