Consequences
never mattered.
We never sought the end result;
just pain,
for the sake of pleasure.
Damn tomorrow,
we were impervious.
We were wrong,
of course;
as we all are in our afflictions.
We beg the sky for wings
until we fall,
and then we cease
to even climb the trees,
for fear of consequences.
Brittle bones
breed bitter hearts,
and many are the eye
that turns to what the other has,
and says,
“By what fraud is this gain?”
In dark nights
eclipsed by ego’s wrath,
they clip their lover’s wings
and say,
“There ought to be consequences.”
There always have been,
and they never go unpaid.
The upright know,
it is only a matter of cost,
prepared for,
by the burning
of a misspent youth.
Years,
traded for momentary distractions.
Simple pleasures.
Flights of fancy.
Wars;
and battles fought
for reasons no one understands.
Not even us.
So,
do not speak of consequences,
unless you’re prepared to pay them.
Those of us
with a belly full of regret,
still seek the high places;
for we have fashioned wings
of every broken bone,
every drop of blood,
every lie told,
and every promise unfulfilled.
We still fly,
and we know,
there will be consequences.
HG – 2020
