Tourniquet

Where the leg falls no flesh will connect.
The sock, the shoe – isolated.
Cold.
        Don’t,
                  don’t abandon it.

Warm stories yearning to be told
          in the distance,
                  aloft like sunrise in a clear sky,
                          like solitude.

The threads are there,
          woven in fragments of time;
let them lead you.
    Stumbled steps or confident strides –
                    no matter.

Let them lead you,
                      unravel
                          wrap all around you
                and there;
                      bind.

Today

This is not the day tomorrow will surely be
there is too much stress, anxiety, even guilt

over all the greatness yesterday should have been
had not the days before that been so difficult.

If I could, I would reject the bed, lift my head
march out the prison I’ve resigned so long to stay.

I’d eat as if there was an adventure waiting
prepare myself for anything that comes my way.

Should there be no courage in the day to challenge
I would fashion some reverence from the stale stone slate.

Days do not wait for good to happen upon them
we must carve it out and try to shape something great,

but this is not the day that tomorrow will be
already today has gotten the best of me.

Flagellation

The sun rises.
From up there this must all seem vexing.
We imprison ourselves
torture ourselves
all for the glory of our future selves
a version of ourselves that won’t want to manifest
with all that we’ve done to ourselves
just to get there,
reducing the distance a little each day
becoming more realistic
spinning tires.

The sun sets.
with its head low to the ground
wondering why we measure ourselves against it
when it is the earth that is spinning
kicking up history
sinking deeper into the void.