To the Top: a poem
Apr 29, 01:01
The distant peaks double each time we talk
and I find I’m stomping wishes on my way to the top
of a mountain of troubles I’d rather let slide
on another grim day, with nowhere to hide
my thoughts, collected as sparks on the ground
I fill another wheelbarrow and haul it around
teetering nerviously, do not spill or upset
or disturb the solitude of the sleeping regret.
These piles are of lessons thought to be learned
I should feel comforted, but instead I’m concerned
by the birds I see picking at discarded lives
piecing through quarrels and anger and lies
they say rubbish is precious in someone’s eyes
just this once, please, just once this time
let that someone be me.