Are we not the doers of many things. The endless to-do lists that we tick.
A long jaunty marathon. Best be quick It grins, it winks, and rarely thinks. To death till you part You do and give.
The facade of endless parade, of the circus, that is a charade. Monkeys dance, with such clowns, yet here you are, the pleasing crowd of one.
Yet you are not the show that demands such pay from the coffers of the frayed. Yet no winners are left to play.
With sinew stretched so thin, a broken shoelace unable to secure. As if such feet begged for more. And feet do much like hands do. No respite from calloused hue. Spin the wheel, where do you stop?
Give the wig and wear the nose, clowns also dance in fine repose. Artifice tamed from frivolous doing, as if by design. The burden is chafed straight to the loins.
I am starved by their meagre offering, picked clean by hopeless vows. Such moral superiority would contort with their purity.
Offering their sweet prayers. I want to subdue my chaotic will in the hope that i would climb the high-vibration heaven stairs. Yet then would my voice be still.
Yet such a will as mine is restless, not subdued by those who inflate themselves like puffer fish.
Bloated with sovereignty, with their chastised songs. Such things bite beneath the cuff, their vapid, senseless tongues.
How honest they seem with pretences set to strike me beneath my brow. I would rather live an honest life that floats straight into the belly of hell.
For many years, your watch has kept me company. In all the shades of my days.
Unspoken words we have between us. Giving way to your pink tenderness, of bud and birth.
Your conversations between the earth and sky. Within you, i find i do not die.
Your colours in the dawn. Giving way to the dusk once more. For you and i, we have endured.
Then watching your leaves turn golden with colour. Parting from the branches above, greeting the ground that slumbers. They are your old friends as they fall.
There you stand, my beloved tree, a silent anchor meant for me.
Oh, how cold the sight of eve’s dim. Such things leave the presence of eyes that want for its prolonged stay.
Drumming, thumping, a chasm, a womb. A place left warm by the solemn march of the vacated, sprinting to elsewhere.
The smell of that day’s end. A stomach grumbling right into the bowels of the yet to be digested. Yet each remaining drop of light, a sliver leading back to the fully satiated.
That thrumming, drumming of winged things, sky-led things, feather-born things, grass-fed things, all moving and crawling.
All are finding their way to their beds’ edge, where night will digest in rest.
Empty and full, release. The days guests to vacate and the eve welcomed to renewal.
