More to a vestibule for the dying
More to the communion
More of obsession’s admiration
More to those who fly
More to those who do not ponder why
Over and above…I keep the gods lowercase
Over and above, the stone dead and gone
Less of a willingness to comply
Less of puppy’s in the window
Less photographic harmony
Less bouncing joy on bended knee
“Let me go” I say, more or less
There is a quiet place, more or less
Oh, sporadic the occasions of an unwanted guest
vanishing a toe into the surface waters
I have reached another plane
coming-to, from this a fitful union
a cow…feasting upon hay
nothing but a nervous, deliberate, ploy
constant combat towards dreamy imps
who exploit any attempts at joy
I allot to carry slurping, acidic, pails of tears until the willingness comes
until I am turned from friend to foe
I am not the water girl for original sin
nor a sorceress with chimes of time to ring
just a nervous barefoot pallbearer…
mistakenly trying to soak up the other side
It is a cluttered step I take…under the weather.
The wilderness calls to me…
Reminding me…’I am the lost soul.’
I have surrounded myself with other wanderers.
A circle of seekers…under the weather.
None of us deceived by items we do not need.
But for some there is no tourniquet for the bleed.
THEY take sips from sorrow’s cup.
And, only when the wilderness calls…enough is enough.
Under the weather lies the love.