Satisfied,
I feel the dense fleece
of drowsy slumber
start to oppress this mind
already shrouded by the red smells
of spice and skin.

Mesmerized
by the strong, duple thrum,
my mind lies
in delicious stupor.
The anxious buzz that often invades
my most sacred spaces
is blessedly silent.

If Summer is fervor,
Winter is truth.
Black, naked branches
having shed at last
the changeful gowns
they donned in spring.

Wind, that wild white animal,
bites to get my attention.
It lays all bare
in urgent whispers
if only one listens
to those clear, cold words.

Uncomfortable reality
haunts white frosted dreams
and disturbs silent slumber,
but I will be honest
like grey, empty Winter
and bare, blighted branches.

How do they do it, those who stumble through life
as if blind? Caught in their blissful
delusion, bumping into others,
unaware of the ripples or floods caused
by their passage. Here I present to you the
Common Man, as profound and prolific as a
****, sometimes harmless, sometimes choking,
a blinkered horse spooked into running,
unguided by the reins of consideration.
How do they speak and kiss and mock without
feeling the feelings they create in
those they drunkenly stumble into?
These are the real life-livers,
the treasure hunters, the junkies addicted to
pleasure, lust, excitement. These thoroughbreds
can’t be bothered to slow for thought when
all that matters is winning more.