01-20-2015, 05:24 AM
P.D.Q.
What do you do
If the trouble arises from a choice
One has already sealed
And mailed off long ago,
Like parcels to world’s end?
A driver sees an alley,
Travels down it,
And soon finds it too narrow.
The price for going forward is bodywork.
If ego and a wallet were on similar scales
He might live with gnarly scratches,
Or toss his cash to craftsmen.
His ears adjust to shrieks of metal,
The scarring, as well as the scarred.
Our bulk ruins the brickwork
Of boundaries enshrining us on either side.
Backing out never occurs to a lead foot.
We park ourselves therein, surrender
To destination’s ego, having begged,
Borrowed, and stolen to get here.
Bad things do transpire when terrible people
Aren’t smart enough to run.
What’s so wrong with the direction
Of his origin?
Who did he disappoint last year?
These freedoms we named choice
Are seedlings grown into folly's foliage
Marking the way to one point in terminus.
To lower the eyes bows the head.
He shakes his hands off of the 10, and the 2.
He holds his palms together as in the desperation
Of single-minded closing.
He knows that the reopening of either,
Or both,
Won’t change the past obstructing him.
Only the thumps of his heart run now.
What do you do
If the trouble arises from a choice
One has already sealed
And mailed off long ago,
Like parcels to world’s end?
A driver sees an alley,
Travels down it,
And soon finds it too narrow.
The price for going forward is bodywork.
If ego and a wallet were on similar scales
He might live with gnarly scratches,
Or toss his cash to craftsmen.
His ears adjust to shrieks of metal,
The scarring, as well as the scarred.
Our bulk ruins the brickwork
Of boundaries enshrining us on either side.
Backing out never occurs to a lead foot.
We park ourselves therein, surrender
To destination’s ego, having begged,
Borrowed, and stolen to get here.
Bad things do transpire when terrible people
Aren’t smart enough to run.
What’s so wrong with the direction
Of his origin?
Who did he disappoint last year?
These freedoms we named choice
Are seedlings grown into folly's foliage
Marking the way to one point in terminus.
To lower the eyes bows the head.
He shakes his hands off of the 10, and the 2.
He holds his palms together as in the desperation
Of single-minded closing.
He knows that the reopening of either,
Or both,
Won’t change the past obstructing him.
Only the thumps of his heart run now.