Double the trouble

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by @d-pend
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Double the trouble

If there were two of me, not only one:
one would toil, one lay in the sun.
One would cook, and one frolic in glades;
one, the flowers pick, one till with spades.

One would pillars chisel, walls uplift,
the other, on the sleepy river drift.
One would take accounts and figure sums,
the other, take repasts and guzzle rums.

One would dream, the other, grueling, build
whatever whims the dreamer dreamt, unskilled
yet vivid in bright, delicate glass case—
the other coarse, their gentle curves erase.

If there were two, still lonely would I be?
For one would surely weep, the other flee.
Or one would dance vivacious, loudly laugh;
the other grumble, sullen at each gaffe.

The one would speak, the other listen not;
the first pestilence wreak, the second rot.
The one grow hale, the other while away,
the first twine glee around its twin's dismay.

The one a radiant glow, the other, dim,
reflect the glory of lush over-brim.
The first a victor, laden down with spoils,
the next a victim, second none in toils.

And now I find ideal—I'm only one;
That I myself not torture, slave, and shun!

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Original writing and images
by Daniel J. Pendergraft
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_{first published to STEEM
February 17th, 2020}

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