July 10, 2014

On a trifle planet trifling with time,
brains attached to rudimentary cameras
attempt to make sense of motifs here and there,
repeated patterns that beckon a reason for every

Yet in spite of all the paranoid dot connecting,
innate meaning to the witnessed grand mystery
refuses to exist,
only dystrophic sentences,
nonsensical word connections.

Drive for money,
need the money for the drive.

Promises of fortune can rule for days,
till days begin to pass like hours,
and you’re a basket for bouquets.

What a shameful rhyme,
what a lazy second line.

The hourglass, it counts,
the only currency that matters –
but what if you’re no good
with banking or numbers?

All that remains:
The rush of the chase,
the calm of making it through the haze –
and when days arrive where
calmness bores
and action seizes to enthrall,
you’ll know then,
because I won’t tell you now,
everything under, and around the sun,
leads to the same.

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