Poets logo

Matches

A Poem on the Blame Game

By Brooke GallagherPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
Like

As I sit here and play with blame

It's as though I'm pulling logic from the flame

With a narrowed lens, I absorb the fumes

Capturing reason from the ash that looms

I presume his guilt continues to strike

And his regrets thirst to ignite that strife

But it's that lingering habit that continues to last

That smolders the future and blurs the past

Across the room, his stance was fair

His pupils wide but hardly aware

The air was stale, the undercurrent rough

My thoughts the waters, raging toward the bluff

Innocently, I compound thoughts I owe a ponder

Vaguely I stare as my thoughts wander:

Maybe it's not who began before the beginner,

Maybe it's more about who wounded the sinner

Epiphany unveiled, the match was fed

He felt the burn, and turned to red

"It just ain't so," his stiff retort

With gas soaked sticks to build his fort

(Thinking)

Fire is an element agreeing with the laws Knowing is a truth without any flaws, Understanding is knowing without the pause-It's impossible to deny a mechanism of cause

Stiff and fit, I blew past his whip

As he spewed his misplaced, yet signature quips

Confused with the misfire,

For I am at one with his smoke,

Engaging puffs, he was assuming I woke

The flux of his mind sharply flicked my state

As his careless notion took over his fate

“Give up the blame; it will be freeing"

He persuaded me to doubt—my very being

With the buck in my hands and nowhere to go

Instinct took over to soften the blow

It was then and there I got carried away

Emotions ran deep, with judgment astray

Pissed to no end, I flicked that grit,

I flicked it straight in, in to his festering wit

Knocked him down, pinned that blame

Then watched as his fort went up in flames

His espionage, his shelter—all collapsed

Yet regret was there after time had passed

With a pliable mind, never holding truths tight

I thought to myself: Damn, maybe he was right

Reality is the allusion one attempts to catch, Thinking: the flame is what lights the match; But maybe it's not so black and white, Maybe there is more gray in the fight

Reality is a moment I try to observe...

And that's the exact moment reality curves

It's the wrist that flicks the match,

As the elements light and seem to attach

I watched my feet as I took a strong step...

Concerned myself with the motionless depth

I jerked to look up and saw him there,

And thought in the end; damn it's fair

That glorious flame brought that match to life

Mutually aware, the burning was rife

With eyes of glass, I watched the pain flee

As it smoldered in to a scattered debris

Another puzzle was left unsolved

Nothing matters unless I've evolved

My tears roll, drowning out the flame

I'm stuck...

I'm stuck in this perpetual question game

surreal poetry
Like

About the Creator

Brooke Gallagher

Business by day, philosophy by night.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.