Turn the Page
So strange how the body and mind
are like boats passing slow in the night...
So much is forgotten, and shelved
far, far from the porthole of sight...
Come awake with wide eyes,
when you’re shocked by black ether!...
The world has its fine ways,
and is vaguely defined,
like the raggedy doll that you use as a playmate
who’s been pounced ’til she bled...
What goes on in your head?...
Let her air on the porch
’fore she’s musty and maimed...
There’s so little to thought
in this lightening licked lane
that you choose to inhabit.
There’s a street light above
who is nightly romanced by
mosquitoes and gnats...
You sit under her glare, and you
gaze north and south,
Waiting for God to answer...
Is there something to all of this
sticking around?...
You could jump a fast train,
get a flat in New Brunswick,
or take a freak chance,
and fly down the West Coast!...
See Portland, or Anchorage;
City of Angels...
Though they say it’s
‘Lost Angeles’ you’re
merely a ghost
when you live just for sitting...
Marking time like a maid
so enslaved in her process of
inattentively knitting...
While you’d swear
to your habits,
you’re just digging your grave.
Ye, though there’s much to be said
about thick travel plans,
and they feel like a balm,
I attest that a scam
is facilitated by
your escapist desires,
always banking on fleeing, and
topping all spires!...
What about your insides?...
Don’t you want to own up?...
What within begs you fill
this insatiable cup?...
You can flee ’til your legs
are just flesh tattered pegs,
but you’ll never escape your
reflection in glass...
Now’s the time to turn ’round,
and start spinning your silk...
Aren’t you sick of the waiting?...
Find that push, shed the guilt,
and tear down green hedges
which comprise your life’s maze...
There’s so many more stories
if you’ll just turn the page.
©
7/21/21
Bunny Villaire
(Edit #2)