Up, up, fair bride, and call
Thy stars from out their several boxes, take
Thy rubies, pearls, and diamonds forth, and make
Thyself a constellation of them all;
And by their blazing signify
That a great princess falls, but doth not die.
Be thou a new star, that to us portends
Ends of much wonder; and be thou those ends.”
― John Donne, The Complete English Poems
The blame game ends when
there are only loose ends and
everything hinges on cause and effect.
You ripped my new sweater,
I said you’d looked better,
No chance of a lasting romance.
The blaming, the naming,
the scolding, the shaming
take place in the dark halls of death.
Above them there rises
the many disguises,
a pile of blaming who’s left.
You can’t right all the wrongs,
so choose a new song where the
chalice is held to the lips.
The inner is burnished,
the outer is furnished,
You’ve seen through the blame
of the ages.
You bought bolts of silk
that just matched my eyes.
I adorned you with garlands
with jewels inside.