Sit
awhile –
there
is time to make and time to waste.
Neither
really matters nor makes much sense.
The
willows weep - hanging low on their bough
Reaching
down to touch the ground’s tense.
The
minute hand strikes the midnight hour
In
synchronous motion of the last day
At
the very moment hence
Derives
no more measures
nor
holds any more meaning for whence.
Walk
with me upon this perilous path;
The
way is certain - though not as foretold.
Save
your soliloquies
For
they will serve you very well
As
honoring eulogies.
A
flower lives in this garden
Where
the rich dirt hosts death’s decompose
Entertaining
grave finalities
While
the regenerative savors the compost
Filled
with life’s exquisite trivialities
And
the gathering flocks
Light
upon the wooden fence lines
To
sit and witness the mycelium’s banalities
Taking
eternal turns just below the forest floors.
Blessings
are heard for both mercies and brutalities.
Where
have you been
Why
are you here
What
have you done-
Do
you seek answers;
There
are none.
No comments:
Post a Comment