It can not be found here
Not on the train
Not today
All the havoc we wreak
It has not been made clear
If it's our brain
Or the spirit of man
The decay that spreads
Withers away
Things are left as untolds
Passed over not on
Hidden in cracks
Politely
As our story unfolds
We produce our own con
To ride tracks
Or whatever it can
Diverted hotbeds
Along the way
Some are quick to derail
The boredom just outside
With action words
And ideas
That whirlwind grows stale
With each increasing ride
Like fragile birds
We peck at the ground
Afraid of the sky
Following all leads
The truth of the matter
Comes as such a shock
On most days
Not today
It's those who can flatter
Paint a smile on a rock
Draw crowds close around
Answers all the why
With a word: pray
--
6.4.09
Author's note to reader: The last stanza of this poem was deleted in transit by either iPhone or Gmail. Either way, it doesn't matter much, the entire poem was wrapped up like a bow and those composed thoughts are lost in cyberspace forever. I am posting this as an incomplete idea that I may finish someday if I can muster the concentration; most likely it will remain unfinished and dim at best. Enough said.
Author's note to self: Find a way to control your rage. Your stress over such insignificant things as a poem that no one reads will eventually lead you to an untimely death. Breathe - there will be other poems and, on most days, they arrive at their destination in a more complete form.
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