On Indifference After Terrilynne Turrell Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

ON INDIFFERENCE
Restraint's refrain from pain's admission gains
til white lie turns implicit truth unspoken.
What we project is realized, explains
tone-deafness to hope's tune, soul scope heartbroken.

Drawn curtains after final act no need
for staged scene to translate to final bow.
Forgone conclusions take toll, take the lead,
while mumbling under breath 'I told you so'.

To strut from stage with page unfinished save
for tears shed. living hell, hurt left intact,
drowns in despond without fond farewell wave:
anathema, sad self-destructive pact.

seems contradiction lacking vital spark,
in limbo, leaving expectations stark.


Reflection, second-guessed, life lonesome calls.
Depression beckons, lessens any chance
of ever breaking through thick self-made walls.
Indifference so seldom spares a glance.

Peripheral vision stunted by dark glasses
stifles open stereoscopic open source,
ignores unbiased recall, passion passes,
fast forward fails as finger presses pause.

Absence replaces constant present praised,
severs contact, out of sight, of mind,
stifles 'fonder grows', high hopes once raised,
destroying dreams delightful: double bind.

Yet these line prove emotions' strength remains
intact, fact trumping fiction, spites hurt's pains.
17 June 2021 in response to Terrilynne Turrell's response on Depression dated 6 April 2010


INDIFFERENCE
Indifference is self-defense, disguise
a ways and means of self-protect. Reject
advance, slim chance to swiftly-met demise
without the need to circumvent. Reflect

upon the heated scene, the expose'.
The he said, she said, sad mad highs and lows.
Indifference could care less what they say -
a shoulder-shrug slips out when someone goes.

Not even to own self admit, until
the lie becomes the truth without a word.
What we project becomes, and always will
turn deaf to expectations - hope unheard.

Draw curtains closed on final act, no need
for scene staged to convey a final bow.
Conclusions are forgone and take the lead,
while mumbling under breath 'I told you so'.

A formula for failure - validate
the mantra we are certain must be fact;
Why bother, when it's in the hands of fate
to compensate for what our efforts lack.

With eyes set on the casket as a prize,
who wants to expend effort, why pretend.
Tomorrow's run out right before our eyes,
and no time in our pockets left to spend.

Reflection's second-guess once lonesome calls;
depression beckons, lessens any chance
of ever breaking through these self-made walls.
Indifference can barely spare a glance.
A rotten way to end for all concerned,
repeat at will, the lesson goes unlearned.