The rain is falling on the neighbourhood, Our garden takes its share, and my good hat; Out of the border shelter of its brood A snail creeps in the wet across the path Leaving the soaking flowerbed for the grass Seeking continuation of its good, Slow through the time a timeless quest for food Elaborates the beating of its heart.
The creep is me, a wierdo what I am. What am I doing here? I don’t belong here, Enchained upon the dirt, constrained responder Bellyfoot, headfoot mollusc, unmoving clam I try to stir from where I first began, Make in the gulf’s depths one thing new appear.
2.
A drought within my throat, an aching head, Stoically for this world’s shock wave I brace. The life which thus far has my spirit fed Despairs, yet faithfully girds itself to face The waste and rapine of this nightmare place Where theft under coercion’s always bred Mass victims all unjustly ***** and fled, Violated to their utmost inner space.
What is the soul to do with this its life? Awakened from the nothing of a sleep One time? To local manners keep? Or for some travel, hard to purpose drive By that for longer to at least survive? It’s wet again. The snails are on the creep.