The Messenger

Like Secretariat or American Pharaoh,                      
you've rounded the final stretch home.                      
This afternoon will reveal you fading                        
and me, marveling at your strength of                      
resolve in the face of abnormality.                        
                     
Many will not be sad your backward illusion                      
has again returned to its seemingly standard                     
position. The truest of tongues will reemerge                      
safely from your black throat  of confusion                      
and misguided perception. Dear Mercator,                      
                     
Despite the blessing you mischievously sneaked                      
past me, I cannot in all honesty say that I                      
am thrilled about your leaving.  I reflect                      
the last few weeks and am grateful for your                      
allowance of musery and channeled poetry.                        
                     
Turning your head from mechanical declines                      
enough to save face, as though a gentleman                      
pretending not to see a lady stumble, only                      
to turn and smile after she's recovered. Your                      
phases honoring delicate contracts of preamble.                      
                     
In retrograde you wreaked havoc under the Gods;                      
To me you will always remain the stuff dreams are made of.                       
                     
~