With each additional option,
We see liberation,
But practice caution.
Each consequence with direct causation,
On the results of the action-auction.
Personal persuasion,
Is a zero-sum game,
A perfectly balanced equation.
There is no evasion,
Protesting makes you more tame,
Each strike leaves an abrasion.
Like sipping fine wine from a Klein stein,
That leads you astray, away, aside,
Where you reside on the incline,
And slide back inside.
When you pass time, and things have passed you by-
You hesitate to say that “time flies.”
When you look up, it’s the same sky,
then one moment it’s February, the next it’s July,
then summer’s almost over,
then the leaves have died.
Sit when you sit, run when you run,
Think not of snow when standing in the sun,
fear no sharks when you swim in the ocean,
and don’t hit the brakes if you’re looking for momentum.
The world whirls at its own pace, and does not mask this,
in this we are hapless.
Like it or not, it spins on its axis,
and you are not Atlas.
Make the best of this game of chess,
It takes finesse not to obsess,
It makes a mess to regress-
When you compress your experience,
you end up with less.
The swing-set that squeaks and squeals due to shear-force in the sanguine summer schoolyard,
The oscillating fan that is ostensibly an orbiting oasis in the warm weather,
The trills and triads the trickle plays when traipsing through its trapeze act to tap on a rock face.
These are minutiae, minute moments made of monuments to each momentous minute.
I hear them outside, and this I know
The windows show a light-grey glow.
The yard was drizzle-dusted in a dancing, daylight daze,
Yet the sun’s rays poked through the rainy day’s haze.
The robins ranted and babbled by the crabapples,
While they foraged amongst the twigs and gravel.
I hear them now, while I stand in the sun room-
And I know that in time, all will come to bloom.
The wind whips and whisks the wisps,
Casting out cloudy skies
and spreading a crisp, brisk mist,
This too I know is true,
When I stand in the sunroom.
The File Pile 