Cliché Ridden

Do you consider my
reticence
a flaw?
Is silence not golden?

I am
no longer a character in
your passion play.
The sacrifice was too great.

You want to hear
a solo
on my heartstrings.

I did that for
too long, wearing it on
my sleeve, while you
looked the other way.

Sadder, but wiser,
I’ve learned
my lesson. Consider that
book closed.

We have become
a cliché.

(In the past.)
This a poke at myself. I’m slowly learning to avoid common terms and phrases in my poetry, but lapses occur. Consider this a way to purge myself of the habit, get it out of my system. Damn! There I go again. Sometimes it just can’t be avoided. Damn!

Viersen. It must have been a small agricultural village at one time. Set in vast acres of open fields of sugar beet and potatoes which ran all the way to the Dutch boarder. It became a satellite village, or a town, to Monchen Gladbach but I suspect it retained its primary agricultural nature until the coming of the railways. A major permanent way was built across the fields to the south east of the village, with sidings and sheds and workshops and a very handsome bahnhof. The rail line ran all the way into Belgium and Holland and North to the industrial Rhur. It was undoubtedly this that attracted the attention of the occupying British forces at the end of the second world war. It became, with its easy rail access to the ports at Antwerp and Ostend, the perfect place to locate a forward supply depot for the Army…