Fine

Poetry

Photo by Matt Botsford on Unsplash.

Fine is not an answer,
Nor means your doing well,
It’s casual acceptance,
It’s conceptually hell.

It’s the word you say,
Instead of how you feel,
The blanket on your memory
So it never will seem too real.

Fine is the un-answer,
It is the preverbal; fill in the blank
When reality is hard to bare,
The lifeboat has been sank.

The word when all words fail you,
The curtain to hide the scars,
The void of space grows inside you,
Without sun or stars.

Fine is mediocre,
Fine is boring bland,
It’s refusing sexual relations,
Because you got two hands.

Fine is the cry for help,
Silent in the dark,
Hoping someone finds the light,
It’s desperate, barren, stark.

Fine is not an answer,
It’s to bleak a vail,
When all is dark and closing in,
And no tells the tale.

A poem by D. Wyn. Price, All Rights Reserved, 2020.