melissaahowells
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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 Vote for this poem |
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