Skip to main content

turtle of today

busy busy, always busy
running from point A to C.
what's an oreo without the creme?
or bookends on an empty shelf?
hyperopic eyes focus on the horizon,
never dropping to see the dashes on the road.
reminiscing's fun but regret's widespread
when we will life to take on lunar gravity
demanding it leap when it should crawl.
why can’t we be content with today?
must we always live one step ahead?
there's value in the quotidian,
truth in monotony.
unembellished breaths propel us forward
in ways hyperventilation never could.
put tomorrow’s rabbit out of your head, turtle of today.

**

Thanks, Velvet Verbosity.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Ostrich

Too afraid to stand and fight; Too much pride to fly away. Cowardice: immobilize Egos lacking skill to play! Games of conflict can’t be played By those afraid to deal a hand. Flightless birds avoid their call Ostriching heads in the sand.  Thanks, Trifecta for the prompt, which requested an animal name be used as a verb. I figured I might as well ignore the dictionary and make my own...flightless birds have always intrigued me, anyhow.

on the surface

on the surface of the moon my feet are as light as my cares tonight but my world's just as empty and the space just as dark and the moon dust obscures the best stars in the sky so I look deep inside and I search for deeper meaning but I've been running on bingo fuel since long before we landed. the craters are only deep enough to cradle my head as I lie down to cry or fall down to die -- time will answer that riddle

Revolution 179

when nature holds her breath the skins upon the mast fall flaccid, their tapestries' richness untold - words withheld to punish her unshared whispers. Nothing given, nothing shared. homicidal waves shore simple rafts unprepared to leave an ordered existence, unprepared to float away as driftwood. how can one hold onto herself without trunks beside to bestow meaning? Mutability of form veils similitude of locomotion. you left your oars in a boathouse on the mainland; mine were lost along the way along with my rebellious spirit. scarlet flames fizzled as they fell overboard, fiery fingers never fated to reach the Red blaze. My revolution became intangible at 179 degrees. i smuggled a glowing ember onto an imagined isle. i cannot bring myself to extinguish its life. it promises a future laden with violence and heartache, whose progression i should halt with vigor but must i discard the scraps of memory? Cookie-cutter philosophy leaves the territory outsi...