Little hut in the snow…made from wood and all her vices.
I zip up close to the vest…
Only when it is time to leave.
Of the earth…my door of entry requires less shelter from the weather.
A warm hearth draws me near.
Breaking the back of pavement…I am back on the beat
Neon walks in as intruder.
Ready to confiscate my light.
Doorways to peep shows whistle out misdeeds.
Hunched away from wordy words…there is not much to be said, when the city is out on display.
The clouds move so swiftly among tall buildings…
It is hard to keep up.
Yet, I do not hurry.
My only harried pace is back to the wooden hut.
So many shapes, sizes.
Some oblique and detractors.
Some manic from nearing disaster.
Time is aging…rounding off jagged points of view.
Time has become minimal.
Urging my black and white mind with visions basic and new.
Restraint by a shaft of evidence.
Not conclusive to ideals.
A melancholy orange…peeled.
Is it vanity that brings me here?
For every indulgence that tells me, no.
For all the voices that fill an empty village and clutter the soul.
In the belly below a need arises from reflective window.
Such visions of clarity when I ‘cannot see myself as others do.’
Just snippets of what I used to do.
Sketched among the floundering breeze.
Simple recollections not made to appease.
Mulling things over.
Not something I am known for.
But fortunate me.
I haven’t far to go to find basic reverie.
Fur lined logs.
One size, does not fit all.
Plodding about in myths of greener pastures.
Happily unaware of the here…and, hereafter.
Servitude is not the calling.
would be to no avail.
The pernicious pig,
the muddied mare,
the calamitous cow.
Free of strings.
And, monetary weights.
Out to pasture by virtue of enlightenment.
Only sullied by contentment.