...

(I don't generally enjoy writing iambically - I find it really predictable, repetitive, and that after reading a poem or two set in its meter that you start reading everything else with it in mind).

.

.

.

Difference, then

Disagreement

And what once was only friction

Before long

.

Smolders beneath incitement

And ignites into its argument.

.

Patience interjects,

Reticence knows,

.

It's best they go their separate ways

Before it comes to blows.

.

.

.

.

.

The young man bristles as he walks 

Beneath street-lamps,

Past park-benches

And atop an un-paved sidewalk.

.

His shoulders are tight, held up about his ears;

His hands are in his pockets; his face a twisted sneer.

.

.

There is a sack that's been attached 

Securely to his hip - 

Weighted down so heavily 

That it carries with a limp -  

.

And in it are his memories,

Experiential plights: 

Every lesson learned in labor,

Each slight and sacrifice.

.

.

And he mutters very quietly, lips tight about his mouth; 

His footsteps tread with full-intention; his gestures pointed down. 

.

He walks with knowing purpose -  

Catharsis and relief - 

Yet moves without complete direction

Save the slowing of heartbeats.

.

.

And from his hip there echoes noise - 

A screaming and a crack - 

There are rustles, there, of violence

Escaping from his sack. 

.

.

He stops a moment to let it settle 

As his blood begins to boil;

He narrows his feet,

Planted firmly, 

.

As a seed would into soil. 

.

.

The rustles cease their shaking

As it quietly desists - 

Splattered patterns lose momentum,

Relaxing into noiselessness.

.

Yet,

.

Though no longer so threatening -

No longer so upset -

The sack would grow a little heavier

As it hung there from his hip.

.

.

And so he stood - careful breathing,

Reminded where he was - 

Not in a world of steep and seething, 

No visions, here, of blood.

.

And he'd pause and so collect himself, 

Turning in his tracks -

Calmer now than he was before,

So he'd motion his way back.

.

.

Ignorance, entitlement, 

A prick into the palm - 

Impersonal and harmless

For nothing there was drawn. 

.

Just a kicking, caught

From belted baggage,

A momentary bite

From a thing he couldn't help but carry

.

As he wandered there that night.

.

.

.