A Flurry of Words
These callous shadows
Antics seared to ink and pulp
Have become my bones
Tomorrow will no doubt be quite similar and quite different for good or ill.
These good days have come and gone
Their hours unremembered
Their lives unlived
Replaced by simple repition
And yet the echo of their memories
Forms that ephemeral gaze
Pulling us along towards history
So essential now, in their destruction
The building blocks of life then?
A filtered past
And an uncertain future
A swiftly turning head avoiding all around it
There do we crouch
This simpering race
Recalling the glorious past, with reprobation for an uncertain future
Never knowing that rapid transformation drawing us on
So similar to their progenitor
These words enmeshed
Petrified at the moment of the creation
Robbed of their momentum, as am I
Does the end of recognition
Insist upon the end of acheivement
Is this long lull in approbation
A larger drop-of of production
Or has it come at last, that my addiction ends itself
Does life start here, for grander purpose?
A mid-life crisis is the realization that the only thing more frightening than living, is death.
The end of a mid-life crisis is a person deciding to ignore that realization due to the influence of sunk costs.
These days all of my promises and lies
seem to rhyme
My hopes and fantasies
a cruel dichotomy to the shape of things
Won't I though, equally lament
having all that I want
and finding myself utterly incapable
Of that most human vice, deception
These days as nights
and nights as days
Have surely cost me something of my sense
But worth the price to see this inverse world
So cunningly beguiled into joy or sorrow
While my expressions change
The days immutable,
Persist in their just mockery
Hence to the truth
That weak, half-coward
Ever-present,
thus ignored
We often ascribe more import to what we do not know than to what we are sure of.
Each bloom
Expends its seeds
In its first triumph
Extinguished.