Dispassionate growth,
both a trickle and flood.
The second hand ticks, clicks
away preciously precise moments.
Still we remain laughably resistant to the
consistent dripping of sand.
Those tiny grains reveal what we've lost,
that which we've yet to gain.
This is my journey,
yearning to forget five minutes ago,
going freely with the presents' current flow.
To know the bliss of
a raindrops kiss.
History flash floods before me
Blind now to the beautiful Oaken tree.
That tree I spoke of is no metaphor, but real,
tangible branches reaching towards the
early morning sun, as the rays play peek-a-boo
with bubbling clouds.
Is this gibberish?
Rambling with no recourse?
The bobbing, pond dwelling fish no have my attention.
squirrels gave their nuts, discussing today's plans.
I for one, am a fan.
It seems a storm may be marching this way.
Here to stay for a bit, then off to find the next town.
I wipe my brow of petulance,
contemplating this ponds future fate.
And away we go once more,
the present seems to bore.
Sore I stand,
brushing away the grounds little gifts, back towards their home.
Beginning again my morning roam.
The foam of my coffee tickling my lip.
... I savor my sips.
Carefully I slip, as the roots cause me to stumble and trip.
With this pen I try and prevent my realities rip.
The grip of my white, cardboard cup tightens.
Frightened I realize,
of the past, present, and future.
How can this be Sutured?
I break from the daily tasks set before me,
far more than need be.
We shall see if I can burst through.
Once more set my foot firmly upon the
bliss of this, right now.
