His feet carried him there with no plan but to see.
Beyond that, the ****** appendages were ******* useless.
But he can't blame his feet for the failures above,
In the brain that is always awash in a chemical storm,
Not of it's creation,
But rather, from failures up higher,
Where angels throw darts and roll dice with God,
(who disdains such a sport),
And anyway...
So, here he is again,
With a mind full of wonder,
When he wants only, sorely, for this:
To have something to say,
Through the fog and the chatter,
To find that within,
Which is real.
If you've ever been drawn to someone, but never felt able to connect, it was probably just your useless feet dragging you over to talk to her (or him as it suits), but then just leaving you there afterward, brain terrified and devoid of anything reasonable to say, much less entice the mermaid to further intrigue. The poem ultimately gives up, blaming a whimsical deity and bored host of angels. Sigh...
If this sounds familiar, then this poem is dedicated to you.
You are not alone, not by a long shot.
Read here by the author:
https://soundcloud.com/warmphase/useless-feet?in=warmphase/sets/poems
.