So strange.
What I can always
rely upon
is
change.
Why should I bother?
Why, complain?
About anything as immovable,
predictably unpredictable
as change?
I take one big flop forward,
one bigger flop behind.
I'm not afraid.
I'm trying
not to feel the edge
of IT.
Remain composed in my mind.
Its
only the condition of the conditions of
change, unrefined.
Cursed change.
But, these days,
I feel like a beggar.
Like I've staked a corner
asking for spange. Pleading.
Asking for something better.
What I get is change.
Wicked change.
Whether its the wind direction,
whether its weather-foul,
change,
can be counted on,
insincere BUT reliable,
sometimes undesirable
as cheap pleather.
Blasted change.
Change.
If I don't bend with it
I may snap.
I'm finding it more difficult
to rejoin my separating halves.
Damn change,
full-tilt ahead.
Change.
Who could've conjured it?
Yet, I'm along for the ride.
Am I past the circle of tolerance?
Am I past the point where
my thinning skills can abide?
As long as there's life,
then salt and tears will flavor it.
One thing will remain the same:
Time.
And time will always sell
with it,
change.
Better to bend than be
broken
or rotting in the grave.
Death can be so permanent.
Why not chose then,
change.
Copyright July 21 2013 Directly to the page. All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo Tilt-a-World
