Sometimes, it is misery that brings me here.
I once a year declaration to a mirage so close…So near.
With further toil.
I know that is not the end result.
Turmoil…being the Utopian lack of doubt.
The salt that falls between the crack in the lines.
No requiem for heat.
No casket for pine.
Only a thirst in search of drunken kind.
Wheels humming to a string quartet.
Rhythm settling down to wheels on indifferent surface.
A beat lays waste to smells of words not met.
There is sweat, exhaust…
There is dread.
Nine months set to the surface of not digging too deep.
Ten months begin the tapping of my feet.
By the time a call has been sent out.
The fear is gone.
There is no doubt.