Oh, how things change, and have yet to change still...
I've been working, pressing bricks made of muddled friendships
mixed with stones and sticks from 'friends' who've thrown them.
It's true, I think of you daily; back bent in servitude --
except that I'm the master, and the servant both in two.
This dichotomy won't bother me as long as you're around.
You're the carrot dangling 'front of my nose.
You orchestrate where this horse-race goes;
you're what I'd wall up with bricks that I've baked.
You're the burned in shape inside my gaze. When I try to look you run away.
Settle back into place, into faux-fairytale bliss, and there you go --
pass by again. Blur into life riding the white horse of pride,
helmeted head held so high. It is quite a sight.
We are both audience and I.
True, most watch the race to see checkered first place or the crashes that pause, mar the way.
Others will gamble on what's governed by random,
and others will gamble still.
Do you ever look through old photos?
You won't find me in those - just wait.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment