brimmed
Somedays I awake having lost my name, the self only one tether, a figment of stability awashed in possibilities. For a few moments I lose all the rumor and strife that bind me, that brightest brand alight in the simple joy of not being this one, that dead-ender adrift in such exquisite freedom. As if identity was that certain doom I have thrown so many empty words towards. As if I would do any better with another face and a fresh set of deficiencies. It always comes back to me tinged with your average package of disappointment and resignation. It isn't right; it isn't just; it isn't even all that much: but it is the only way I know.
The world seems too full just yet, all the furor and strain addressed in that bowl of night-- once brimmed with shadow and star-- emptying out at the broad and bright horizon. Long streets running into or away from the sun, limp eaves and fallen branches. My footsteps too certain for any probable outcome, my stride too slow for walking and too ungainly for a stroll. I stagger out some familiar route, nearly dragging the old dog like a pull toy while the young dog all but champs at the bit. Mail box, then enclose an awkward circle. These wan completions we accomplish that are never done with us. The brickwork of small habits that will laden down the day.
I plan to pause and smoke awhile. I plan to learn to focus through the mesh of gnats and dust while the sky takes on a little color and the birds turn to their trades. Even the least of my plans have little to recommend them, and even less chance for success. I will scratch any itch, riddle the drama away from any scar. A few hollow actions with-in this hallowed world. The abrupt brush of intentions meeting their inevitable ends. There are lessons assured for learners. There are reasons enough to fill in any unwieldy blanks. Always more names than things, and nothing left of consequence to neglect.
Somedays I awake having lost my name, the self only one tether, a figment of stability awashed in possibilities. For a few moments I lose all the rumor and strife that bind me, that brightest brand alight in the simple joy of not being this one, that dead-ender adrift in such exquisite freedom. As if identity was that certain doom I have thrown so many empty words towards. As if I would do any better with another face and a fresh set of deficiencies. It always comes back to me tinged with your average package of disappointment and resignation. It isn't right; it isn't just; it isn't even all that much: but it is the only way I know.
The world seems too full just yet, all the furor and strain addressed in that bowl of night-- once brimmed with shadow and star-- emptying out at the broad and bright horizon. Long streets running into or away from the sun, limp eaves and fallen branches. My footsteps too certain for any probable outcome, my stride too slow for walking and too ungainly for a stroll. I stagger out some familiar route, nearly dragging the old dog like a pull toy while the young dog all but champs at the bit. Mail box, then enclose an awkward circle. These wan completions we accomplish that are never done with us. The brickwork of small habits that will laden down the day.
I plan to pause and smoke awhile. I plan to learn to focus through the mesh of gnats and dust while the sky takes on a little color and the birds turn to their trades. Even the least of my plans have little to recommend them, and even less chance for success. I will scratch any itch, riddle the drama away from any scar. A few hollow actions with-in this hallowed world. The abrupt brush of intentions meeting their inevitable ends. There are lessons assured for learners. There are reasons enough to fill in any unwieldy blanks. Always more names than things, and nothing left of consequence to neglect.