The movement a play of artful cadence,
cycles like seasons drawn,
time in ever-changing call, the rumination
of so much more, as we in earthly skin
travail life’s arduous possibilities,
under weight of imperfection.
The risen sun our conscious incision into day,
and the gloaming silence the door to night in play,
while time meanders like a river vast,
across our chosen landscapes,
obstacles a many, rewards our prey,
until we discover disinterest.
The heavens evoke eternal will,
yet ours a pill to cure the headache,
and relent on an esoteric malaise
with both feet in the mire we’ve made,
stagnant in glutinous thoughts allayed
so not to count the cost.
How I despise the ironies we live within,
the sickness of ignorance in spin,
confusion reigns as nothing is as it seems,
dreams twisted, torn from mind
too early to be read and deemed useful,
just another illusion in this institution of my mind.
I sit and watch the world go by,
intermittent synergy in connection,
head in, head out, my pleasure,
as the disappointment clouds at summits,
and below on ground level,
the rats squabble over the bones of the lost.
I care not for absolution,
already lost to a skewed conformity,
my thoughts elsewhere,
used in more valued affectations of better,
internal prose of literary genius,
and so goes the mind in expression.
No rationalisation, a poor man’s paradigm,
just the stark and ostensible truth,
the ruse so ingrained I cannot shake loose,
so invest I will in my own edict,
my own valuation of thought
and in short, my own wanted reality,
far exceeding the present.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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