The Daily Grind

Over the shoulder, to the left of fortune is...
the lier in wait; not what one wants,
but surely our fate

Ignored and implored
begged and forgotten
it makes it so real
these thing we must feel
and then they become
 misbegotten
 memories...

like a great grinding stone or pestle and morter
the day is but a mechanism of
mulching madness
bourne of disorder

creeping like a venomous snake-

then before you is the great cosmic rake
come to clean away the detritous
of bodies and dreams
like leaves in the autumn breeze


even the one who walks unafraid
is soon ground down like a peppercorn
naught but a speck of seasoning
for an expensive meal

and we get lost in details
and the wind blows our misgivings about
and we trivialize the days growth
and the dirt beckons like an old friend

grave concerns push us like
hurrican winds tear at the sails of tormented
sailors franticly tying knots
of frayed rope
in freezing rain
as fractions of time tick by relentless

panting and sobbing
crawling and crying
to the threshold of
the next step
taken where feet
cannot tread
not even fine words can follow there
Were angles grow week,
and the devil grew tired and trembled.