Friday, June 01, 2012

vultures over the landfill

an old woman irons shirts,
in the window of a highrise,
under a midnight moon,
a man below screams at the TV,
with a six pack and a foul mouth,
rust and the smell of paint remover,
wisps of hair flutter in a dirty breeze,
looking for answers,
in ideas, sounds, words,
finding only interpretations,
opinions nothing more,
than the bastard children of thoughtless bitterness,
the tap of leather shoes,
move outside a squeaky door,
an ant on the ceiling,
a spider on the floor,
their lives are small,
but mine isn't much more,
just a speck on infinity,
fueled on alchemical lore,
born to be responsible,
to choose the endless chore,
of seeking the Self,
hidden at the core. 

































3 comments:

Carl said...

Was that you hanging out outside my place last night? Because you have encapsulated exactly what went down here for the past year or so.

Old Ollie said...

You are seeing that old beat world.

The Square Corner said...

Like a rusty jab against another old fighter's bruised heart. I like it.