Disappointment, Expectation's Sister...

Just what is this dead thing I find in me?
Like some poor roadkill beast, pathetic and flat...
it smells of disappointment,
it reeks of expectation and it feels like wet clay in my mind.
It seems "I" won't be getting what "I want".

Are these the legs of this thing?
Not able to carry me anywhere,
not indicative of the path forward...only pointing stiffly at me.

Yes, words get spoken,
we say things that we hope to make good on
but then comes the world, running over these and making lies on
this stinky tongue of unfulfilled longing.

Bittersweet it could be, this self-pity and self-loathing,
if not for the odor of carrion that infuses it's very being.
The ambivalence of the tugging of emotions
to decide who I will see
when I look deeper into it's mirroring eyeballs
disappointing disappointed me.

And worse still, the thought that all of this
is caused by me, poor baby in actuality,
not by they whose words are left incomplete,
irresolute between speech and act
intentions paving a familiar road
of disillusion leading straight to the pit
to climb out of on the back of this dead beast.

The matted hair, once a mink coat of luxurious hopes
now dried up, hard and spikey,
as my expectations...
revealed for the folly they are.
Ears that no longer hear
are the deafness that brings
me here to this place of
slowly clearing blindness
now that my muted voice seeks return

So I write this and then I write that
scratching claws
trying to decide whether to eat this dead thing, crap on it
or to toss it to the winds and let the vultures have it.
Luckily the words take the form of bat-winged arrows
and I, bowed before them, launch disappointment
out the window to patrol the roadway
looking for some other
poor fool to antagonize
beak and claw and tooth.