And watch the winters rise and promptly keel.
A tread embracing air is what you need.
If what you’re living’s as good as it gets,
Perhaps the afterlife’s a better bet.
You rarely sacrifice as you receive,
For greed and need seduce your kin to thieve.
You’re but a doll entangled in your codes,
That, at the foremost hint of breaking road-
Unspool in agony upon the floor.
A brilliant pantomime the heart awaits,
As foetal sleep succumbs to infant cries,
That, as the waxing winter, build and rise;
And kiss, and break, the peephole that divides
A heaving mother from rejoicing cries.
An equal rival thrives in wrinkles dead,
As mourners crowd around a wrinkled head,
And black is borne for thirteen days and one,
And then, the loss is lost, the mourning shunned;
And back they to their daily toils return.
Amid these acts of play should you plough on,
A cup that changes coffee every morn,
As seasons shift, and so do right and wrong,
Expecting you to ever bound along
The morphing definitions, on and on.
Perhaps it all is for a higher good,
Perhaps a God will bless me for my deeds,
But shunned, as I now teeter on the chair,
I doubt if heaven will my storms recede,
I therefore choose to live my end in code-
And plough the chairless winter with my feet.