Treading over hills and valleys of my mind, looking for a
rest area to sit awhile.
Nothing seen, trudging ahead, hoping soon to become a part
of the next level of life.
Surrounded by incessant incantations, swirling about looking
for a place to reside.
There are no distinct methods to life, it has it’s haphazard
ways and expressions of dealing individually with each of us.
Alighting on battered doorsteps, decayed and falling through
from years of constant use.
Sending milestones of aggravation to their death, so as not
to have to deal with policies of inherent living.
Scattered unwillingly throughout the universe, accepting
frail hopes and promises made from angel dust.
Losing all there is of earthly life to a flimsy sentence of
abhorrent rust – left in the spattering rain for another
decade lost and alone.
There are no sorrowful recriminations waiting in lines,
all have been forgotten in books of rhymes.
Aged, filled with dust, no longer of use to anyone – not
even the author who now lies at rest beneath the earth.