, , , , , , , , ,

Kicking around in the dust

Of another directionless day

Wishing on a long dead star

That revelation is real

We were stillborn in this place

Reached up through the lattice of weeds

Grew old and tired and died here

As if we had ever lived

And floating high above the clouds

We see at last what all this if for

The hamster running on his wheel

The time that nevers ends

The pull of procreation

That withers in the dying light

And leaves our winters colder

Than the ghosts that haunt our heads.

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2020