Of leaving poetry.

I have nothing more to say,
by the way of poetry-

All that I remembered
is now devious,
of the people I loved
there are few left,
of the kind of love
I wrote about
there is little left,
there is nothing more
of the unlikely
beneath the evident,
I, no longer, tearfully
trouble with reasons,
instead there is caffeine
neurosis and facebook
exuberance.

I leave myself
often now,
dragging chairs
across restaurant floors,
I write longer sentences
rather than clever phrases,
no more of those undulating
rhythms of my mind,
sometimes, though,
colour of sky
or embers on a moonlit floor
tempt me to poetry,
but I leave to forgetting.