Detox [poem]

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“So now I will a cold monk be
and fill my life with poetry”.
So said the disillusioned (but yet still free)
unfusioned flagrantly-clichéd opponent
of crass sentimentality.

He looked upon the luggage that he towed
(mostly lightweight cool safari stuff)
and said: “I will not drag another’s load
for my own tonnage is a freight enough
and deadweight haulage will not once again
be thrust upon my naked back
to buckle both my weakened knees
and throw me off my yet-unbeaten track”.

There comes a time in every longless life
to open up the casing and [subsequently
facing up to all the present-time-disgracing
smile-defacing elements of love-debasing
memory-tracing tail-chasing evidence]
empty out the heart-erasing people-spacing
while retracing crooked steps to past-embracing
then replacing
everything that pains
with joy.

Otherwise how can there be
a journey courting destiny
a paean to synchronicity
while roving cruising twosomely
no longer under burden-blight
but merely
“cargo lite”

© 2012, Alan Morrison

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