IRONIC

Slow it creeps 

that churning in the gut

that hits as you meander, remembering

Voices of fashioned wood

echoing in the dark

incredible stories yet true, whispering

Ironic isn't it

to find a jewel

and see it float away

Ironic isn't it

that perfection should be perched 
just out of reach

And as I wandered, I wondered

the manner with which it manifest

The strength of that sudden wrench, 
that squeeze that stops 
the spinning

Arrested thought lies frozen

stuck inside a frame in time

filled with colour that 
the artist set free, exploding

And dwell you do

amongst swells of nervous giddiness

picking up fragments of hope, thinking

Ironic isn't it

that the magician chooses 

to let slip magic through his fingertips
Ironic isn't it

that a puzzle lies unfinished, bereft
of that piece which perfectly fit

And thus filled with weary helplessness
I ruminate the reasons

about How and Why the arrows fly

and When and Where does respite lie

such is Life I suppose

a heady cocktail sipped slowly
where the iconic mixes with the ironic