Who am I to have faith in the watercolor notion
of human civilization? Though it may unchain us
from the mundanity of survival,
I do not want freedom;
therein lies an invitation to loss, a wide door
into Death’s labyrinth, souls mired amidst
the dusk-like sediment of complacent fears.
We exhaust in pleasure,
wilt from loneliness.
And self-mockery is all that sketches us out
as living, breathing, mobile if not
We do not ripen.
Some impurity prevents our soft blossoming
in the transcendent ecology.
Needful desire will not sustain.
I will run and run and run
until my essence washes across the timeline.
Capture me in the strokes of a moment.
Forever is not always
but an indelible once.
Copyright 2014 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.