weary soul
worn down
like sneakers
that have walked the line
far too long
that line far to thin
to make a difference
no delineation,
no real sides
to be taken
just a staging area
between the black  and grey
of a half life lived in half shadow
with the promise of
an hours sunshine
each day...

weary soul
wandering  along
to the end of this line
that peters out
in a morse code message
of mental and physical decline
a repatriation of lost time
a moments deviation defined
by years spent waiting for
a chance to rewind, declined
by a judgemental man,
signing on the dotted line

weary, wearied soul
worn out and now
just a faded memory
blown, dust to the wind
as the coffin winds down.
lines now terminated
ultimately, forever, segregated
from the life within
and on the topside,
a mourners line
thin and tired
throw soil
upon the lid

weary souls
crying for justice
but reaping sorrow
fearing for the break of morrow

marrow jelly and breaking bones
wend their way, back to broken homes
to sit on couches filled with dust
to watch television that peddles lust
and throwaway goods for throwaway lives

no call for effort,
no need to strive,
just be a drone!
live for the hive!
groan and moan,
give graft on loan
have your muttered say,
about the state of play
whilst, living lives, the deepest shade of grey
growing weary and more wearied evey day
waiting for the great big sleep
wading through
beaucoup de petites morts
drowning in
une petite vie


jamais las, éternellement usé
porter des clowns espadrilles
et un froncement de sourcils
forever weary, eternally worn down
wearing clowns  sneakers and a frown

we are,
but the little pebbles
nestled
in the sand of time's
slow flowing river.

it is merely,
the disparate nature
of our minute size
in opposition
to the immensity
of the ponderous
river's drift,
that creates
the grind of pebble,
one to another.

causing,
the eroding
of our
singular thoughts.
it is only
the gentle tap-clacking
of another's desire
to know,
and be known.

that causes,
the acceptence
of the rasp and rub
of external catechisms.

causing,
rejuvenation
in the questing
of kindred souls.

that causes
the revelation
of differing paradigmal,
sways and drifts,
some sympathetic,
some callously
indifferent.

causing,
an ebb and flow
of treatise
and dissertation.
as we abraid
and hone
each other's
sensory disposition,
begetting,
spectrumunul emotions
from elanic bliss
to yearning,
dolorous sorrow.

that causes,
introspective despair
that grapples
against difinitive delight.

we the pebbles,
caught within
this mental current,
cannot visualise
the infinitesimal alterations wrought by time.

yet,
others remark
upon the changes,
that is the way
of the waters path,
as time flows,
unrepentant
into the basin
of life's sea.
we must to survive,
simply concede
our pretentions
and comply
to the  power inherit
in the water's
flow

and the old grandfather
groans and shrieks and
knocks out,
  five bells and a tinkly riff

the face says four,
the heart five and a bit
eccentricity,
is not a good companion
to measuring time...

the pendulum swings
and hitches on the return...
pausing on a memory fine
and then dodders on, over
to begin the loop again.

the cherry wood case,
the faded coat
that holds frail
mechanics within
cogs and wheels
smoothed,
by many years
of tocking service.

face cream cracked
just shy of sour,
saved by hands
refined filagree brass
and gild roman numeracy,
black and solid outlined.

outlived generations, two
and sailed from far away..
god bless
our old senile clock ...
always,
just two ticks
from fading away.