2004Jan23 (Poem)
Friday

Idle as a
Tamborine smile

With only a flash
Of an unmanifestable
Dream

It’s that monotonous trudge
That takes you an extra mile
Away from inevitable collapse
Implosion
An incarcerated scream

A self-destructed vagabond
Leaning against a pole
With a sign that reads
“Move on. I’m one you’ll never know”

And an unbreakable hope
Nested deep within a truth
That isn’t at all what it might seem
Flown and hidden
Because the cover on this book is old
Tattered, torn, smalls like mold
But there’s a new word in chapter three

And it doesn’t matter
If it’s too easy
To fall into make believe

Your life is a well chosen note in a piece of music composed of rests, mostly

Nobody controls time
The whole earth cannot influence the sun
Nobody spends time
Because nobody owns it
Time is a flow
Contiguous with life as we know it
The fallacy is that we are masters
But the truth
Is that we’re just a conduit

They are all the same poem

Because (?)

She was too close to call
Flow, pace
No point of reference
To this place called self
Is unseen reverence

Secrecy engulfed
By reason of sanity

Hollowed out of warmth
Confined by a need to be free