Lost (cascade poem)

By Alison McBain

Many poems speak of longing

for concepts dying or dead,

balanced on the precipice of loss—

but what about a misplaced life?

Workaholism is an addiction

that wears you down: the daily grind

of words, but empty of feeling—

many poems speak of longing

and I long for people, not things,

connections faded from distance,

a way to rise above mourning

for concepts dying or dead.

When older, change is risky

with the clock ticking down, but safety

crumbles at the edges, since we’re always

balanced on the precipice of loss—

Perhaps I will be proud of accolades,

perhaps their emptiness will fill me up

when I am digitized and gone,

but what about a misplaced life?