and maybe some chores in the 'noon,
Those extra few hours are sacred to some
After the long, winding working week
is done. Incessent high volumed chatter
quickly comes tiresome, the laughter from a can
tedious and distracting, it penetrates
the mind and disturbs the thoughts in hand.
Night time for the owls of the world
is their own, precious to them, sacred.
The squeaking and the croaking and the groaning
steals away the quiet magic, whispers go unheard.
The mind can become cluttered and full,
like dishes and plates in a dirty sink,
things become lazy and more nasty things
take hold, a simple germ leads to more.
Something so simple as a stick of cancer
with its leaves and paper burning cooly
has such tranquil feeling. The smokey drifts
bring too retches of distaste, throats burning.
Little lined boxes make more boxes lined little,
the nature of the beast one fears. To take over
and consume, awareness just a word that exists
somewhere only known to the few.
Switch. The Light. Off.
No comments:
Post a Comment