Jaggedfrost

Addressing endless masochism

suspecting I spit in the wind

and the words are just as gone

or so they  seem

perceiving out my window

they whip and fall

I have to drive

so not aware of where they land

but neither do any of the other drivers

unless it hits their windsheild

what they do with that we will see

and not me.

 

perhaps too much the cynic

words are a gift

yet as time ebbs on

the gifts clutter up the house

and slowly mean less

then when given 

 

Skid marks on the water

as I see its neighbor pebles

on the bottom

in repose

no one lifts any of them

as they are now part of the land scape

they add to the lake

to the river they add

but not enough to notice.

 

Walking into the shops where these pebbles

and bits of spit

from all the hopefuls like me

knowing the odds

yet willing to pull the lever

and hear the gears make that hypnotic sound

get a few complements now and then

but in the end...

 

So there I stood

before the wrack

seeing those few who we still know

the writers that mater still

William, Victor, Emily, Charles

my friends and kindred spirits

yet they have me topped

my betters and my mentors

The rest of those

to whom I look

I find their work in the trash

or drifting in the whirlwind

just a part of the scenery.

I save some pieces in my private collection

knowing that I cannot save them all

but I will build the walls

of my writing sanctuary

with the pages of those I can

Maybe they will say

that my house blends in

and its ruins

a monument to the beauty

and desirability of the land.

 

I will rest here though a while

and add my own rocks

spit out my windows all I please.

and give my gifts to those who come

to peruse my garden of eden

Say a while if you please,

tell me what you think.

 

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