To think that the soft silk pillow
of truth rests inside the lazy chest
It is then the lid of concentrated equilibrium
blows off with the same wind
that cuts the cord of your young yesterdays
and melancholia has permission
to evaporate like ether from life's
mysterious purpose

But I confess, these old brown grocery paper
bag hag hands use to hold a rough picture
of futures promise as if they were only on loan
They'd shave off the barked mahogany
of derelict past generation opinion for
payment into a cult of wire haired sailors who
thought that saying hello was getting too personal
Bilge drunk, disappointed and in denial, begging
the skies wet breath for compass direction
with broken magnetos

But the longer I live, the more I find myself
giving yield to a life that doesn't always
seemed determined by me

Written by Sara Fielder © Feb 2016