It’s not halfway down the stairs,
Nothing so toe-curlingly cute and quaint,
But a road travelled all too often.

it all begins with the norm,
Decisions made, thoughts played out,
Long and short balls caught and thrown
Back to where they flew out from.

Somewhere in the distant past,
From where my own arc light fell
And broke, down to scorched earth,
That when the mirage of sadness lifted,
Was seen to be not scorched but same.

This leads us back to where we sit,
Distant planes’ flight thunder
Mocking true rain clouds hanging
Pregnant in the near-blue sky.

Trees whispering tall unheard secrets,
Sussuration of wind blown leaves,
Teasing memories of nightmare-held
Frozen self not yet lost, but long forgotten.

So this is where we sit,
Me, myself and I, arguing
Constantly aware of the ludicrous phrase
To try, an excuse for pre-attempt failure
And yet all that we can wish for
On hope’s daydream gaze.

This is not the end, merely a new beginning,
Somewhere to start fresh today, this moment,
Lost again in rhetoric’s evil trapping
Word play binding stronger than cast iron,
No movement without percussion,
Another day gone, but not forgotten.

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