You seek the time,
Splashing in mud, spinning in grime,
Childhood, sunlit/moonlit memory,
On a Sunday in January by the sea.
But the Devil bereaves of such hope,
With your contemporary misery you’re forced to cope.
Itching, twitching mind craving to be unwound
And your flesh writhes anywhere but off this ground
(you are bound).
But hey, with a wink of the sky,
And the blink of goodbye,
It’s easy to accept what you aren’t,
And grin at the sight of your pre-dug grave.
You aren’t much of a creative creation.
Originally appeared in the 2009-2010 edition of Outside In.