A Change…of socks

Another tick, another number.
Another acquaintance, another blip.
Another one, that in my mind has won,
and I have lost.
Another day down, and down, and down.

“Life is but a series of moments.”
But lies, therein no true real motive.
No drive, nor impetus,
none potent.  Or impotent.
Short of a kinder, better word, every time.

“Tis better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all.”

It sucks that I vie for a reason to try,
not to die or sigh.
And tell that to what’s left of me.

Of gods and words, not a one I see
can describe my anger of the constant riddle
endured, alone, and lacking past knowledge
to figure out, to think
without of this box.

So cry to a god that hears me not,
and ask yet again for another shot.
You cannot stand a chance,
indirect, that
“taking chances are for fools.”

There’s not a year that I don’t miss,
that feeling of empty, ubiquitous,
I cast myself into an abyss
of new chance, changing,
however, denying, overlooking.

Or stare in passing, in wait, and weigh,
of horizontal stripes that appeared one day,
or bitch and blame and moan and stay.
—And stay!
I inveigh the obstacles I keep in my way!

Ah, so, so fair, but worse for wear,
but there, I counted
the damage mounted.  Would it take
a fountain of youth, or
infinite sleep to cure my eyes?

I open my eyes to a spotty blur.
So I open my ears, and there I bleed,
to hear not the words of those that stood,
before or there, but of my compare,
contrast, undeserving; they bled for real.

“A mouse of men, a corrupter of sorts,
to play with depravity as if a sport.”
Certain, and surely, quick and early
to bind,
to find little of worth, within.

The pain, now ultra-circadian, I give,
I move, I seek, I want, I live.
I find myself.
But not for long; the song,
overplayed, that sad, sad song.

The reminder of pain,
that love should follow suit.
Unconditional, I surrender!  However,
I lust… but cannot leap.
Still, for a bridge, I reach, but in speech.

You care to believe you’ve advanced upon
the places stood before, discounted.
You exhaust yourself to face new rounds,
but find your motion sideways.
A change, it is, yet another change of socks.

I still struggle to make each day count.


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