In This World, Part of It


Obsequious,

 and churning ashes;

resolute in turns both tragic

   and beleaguered-

cowards bleed.

Blind mandela,

starving seeker.

Wheels that grind

but lead nowhere-

Navigate your ragged circle,

all alone without a spare.

Clouds clap loud,

but growing weaker;

sleep supine on dusty wings-

moths that rise

while August lingers,

sweeter dreams

of bitter things,

wasted breath and foolish notions,

thrice believed

 but twice betrayed.

Spinning lost in aimless motion

gathered threads soon break and fray-

Weaving on a loom that’s broken,

pauper’s shrouds for empty graves.

All those things you dare not covet-

beg to leave, 

forced to remain.

Don’t forget your Mother’s promise:

  “You, my love, are in this world-

   Do not believe you’re not part of it.”