Friendless Center - edit3

[dukealien]

Friendless Center


I yearn for characters to orbit me
as sycophants revolve around their kings
portraying duty jeweled with repartee
as Jove has Ganymede, Saturn his rings.

I cling to things which can’t return my love–
old toys I grasp with misplaced sympathy–
and sadly sigh at smiles which never move,
projecting mindless, endless empathy.

Disloyal, things I own!  You will not be
grave-goods to burn or bury in a tomb;
mute matter, you cannot accompany
my dissolution, so disdain my doom.

But meanwhile, toys I value more than friends,
help me forget what smiles, and who pretends.

edit2;

I yearn for characters to orbit me
as sycophants revolve around their kings
portraying duty jeweled with repartee
as Jove has Ganymede, Saturn his rings.

I weep for things which cannot love me back–
old figurines I own, toys thought to life–
and sadly smile at knowing grins I lack
on painted faces, mindful as a knife.

Inconstant, things I own:  they shall not be
grave-goods to burn or bury in a tomb;
mute matter, they cannot accompany
my dissolution but outlive my doom.

You toys, you things I value more than friends–
help me forget what smiles, and who pretends.


edit1;

Friendless Friday


I yearn for pleasing minds which orbit earth
as goldfish circle in their crystal bowls
pretending reason, simulating worth,
provoking conversations without souls.

I weep for things which cannot love me back–
old figurines I own, toys dressed as life–
and sadly smile at knowing grins I lack
on painted faces like a cake-top wife.

Inconstant, things I own:  they shall not be
grave-goods to burn or bury in a tomb;
mute matter, they cannot accompany
my dissolution but outlive my doom.

You toys, you things I value more than friends
who might distort my dream with means and ends.

original version;

The wonder of these minds which orbit earth
as goldfish circle in their crystal bowls
defies all majesty, all terms of worth
by its ubiquity, untouched by souls.

I weep for things which cannot love me back–
old figurines I own, toys dressed as lives–
and sadly smile at eager grins I lack
on painted faces false as man contrives.

Inconstant, things I own:  they shall not be
grave goods to burn or bury in a tomb;
mute matter, they cannot accompany
my dissolution but outlive my doom.

You toys, you things, I love you more than time
I waste in dusting you, on tears and rhyme.

Passing through a patch of poet's paralysis... can/should this one be saved?