PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Oak bent into an hourglass
by expansions from the sky;
wizened by what, I wonder.

Albeit strange in depths, none so
as wily yet inept as I've
heard myself to be, but oh, what's the use;

there's not room left to compete among
or place to plant my feet while wrung
as arid of my once-desire as I could hope to be.

Therein lies the malady that's
gotten far and reared its head
among the faces of my dreams for days and years to come.

And if not to succeed, pursue;
peruse the damaged goods among the
casually defeated in a gallery on Main,

it's only to recede into a
place where I'll resume descent,
and only when the rent is due will the whole of it relent.