Thursday, May 28, 2015

Not a real thing

This isn't a real thing.
I'm just trying to figure out what to do
to better hear the ticking of a keyboard
against the tocking of the clock.

It's musical,
this droning on of time.

As the tempo changes
the dance moves
onto summer flowers
forcing themselves up
through last autumns decay,
in all that winter didn't kill.

I found the perfect black pearl mulch to cover the soil,
and a lovely paint to mask the dullness of yesteryear.

The story is over.

And I'm ok.

My forearms are sore.
A perfect reminder of my weakness.

The white whale is dead
The dead are gone
The living are hungry

There is no right way
no wrong way
and no better way.

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