Poem. The Bout: A True Incident

I wrote this poem in English
for,
Well....but!
What a choice of vehicle
that readily furnished
words to depict a bout
of a potent nature!
of a nurtured pain!

This bout,
This linguistic setting,
were most probably begotten
of that traffic jam.
When all my mental squeaks
were made to go off loud.
Yet, good were those
allegedly forgein words,
to quell the barrage of faintly
"remembered" little futures
that hit my window-pane
and rolled away
onto the wild road ahead.
Awaiting my wheels to crush them
And this was just insane.
For, painful little futures,
thought I as I drove,
could come back in such a cloud
of magnificent redemption
guarded by angelical solace.
Oh yeah, and nothing less!

Was I feigning some revelation?
or just trying to rub away
the sting of the bout,
in which I was smitten
...by that vision
of a so-called future?
FUTURE!
That lucid, brilliant thing
we used to cherish,
to hail,
to only see it leading
us along the rosy trail.
Yet now it is merely a bout
of sordid thoughts
and morbid doubt
that make you run amock
from one bewildered maze
of past, present haze
to bits, remains and pieces
of what you surely dread.
The bout,
,hence, by far
is hard to tell about
because it really hurts.

I was so immersed,
while waiting for my turn to pass,
in the most futile making of
a poem in praise
of the lame
crooked happenings
since they were supposed to last,
The words I chose seemed to
grope,
under that fading light of hope,
for a meaning unsurpassed.
But,alas!
And the jabbing.
That metallic cosmic flare.
That miraculously failed blow
that so luckily missed my soul,
was a snap of the teeth of barking fate,
as it cut through my need to reiterate.
So, I pulled my car
aside of all.
I decided, may be rightly, on a stall.
A big stall!
For the bout
was so scary,
it was hard to tell about,
It is hard to tell at all.

Ottawa 25/08/06