Sometimes, I hate weekends,

their sprawling lurching forwards

and indefinite, unaltered, thrusting

ways: sometimes, I awake,

unfettered, a darkened motive

forced past the night from which it

springs, burning ineffectually

in a morning's embers.

We work as we wake, and sleep

in dreams our conscience fails to make.

But shall our weekend warriors

never toil, never bow

their fire-crowned heads,

enwreathed in furtive future destinies

and stolen in their prime

by facts, predispositions, fears?

What weekends will our conscience

take, destroy, unmake, when fires

and oft-burnt flames

are dead, burnt-out in desolation?

What weekend in this blasted

world remains?

We'll live our lives in peace, unconflicted,

a weighed and oft-considered future lone, inflicted.

But O, the contest! The pitting

of our pittance 'gainst another's,

the striving in seeming innocence

of truth, all-knowing, all

uncaring: where, in this thoughtful,

all-determined world, inscribed

in thought, described as such,

can such feeling find itself?

Ensorcelled? Such misgiving misses,

confounds its truth with another -

what world worth living in has no share

of magic, darker truths, despotic

drives and manifold directions?

What world, untomed, completely

clear, directed, can burn so bright

as to keep its flame enticing, to keep

out melancholy undirection, loss

of all that deepens in our hearts?

This life for me, no other where

the canniest can swirl its crystal ball.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

What started out as sadness as being temporarily friendless and missing a party turned into something rather interesting, I think.

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