somebody from my heart sang i could turn off and never wake up


January 2017


At the edge of oblivion
a horned owl watches patiently,
serenely unfolding a sea of drama
in the endless night,
satisfying the cursed quota
as the wicked men waste
and wise men weep,
their sorrow a testament
to the artistry of the owl,
whose creative vision and imaginative
endeavors run without parallel,
forever creating and destroying
the dreams of each living creature
with fulfillment happening at random,
every disappointment of little consequence
in the encompassing grand scheme,
although world shattering in their own right,
the owl blinks in acknowledgment,
knowing the end result will justify the suffering.



Calm winds blow somewhere,
but not here;
our storm is just beginning;
most of them ran for shelter,
and the rest of us clutched our frozen hearts,
as if we might make them warm again
by just getting a grip…

but the joke was on us,
and our punchline was to the gut;
reeling to catch our balance
while they caught another victim;
forgive me if I’m not a good sport,
if the referee would call a foul
then this fair play could resume;
in the meantime I’ll be on the bench.

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