contemplativeStuck in the Middle
Poem for Day 305 – 20151102
Stuck in the middle,
controlling it,
while everything else
goes its merry way.
To move is to die,
to die is to change,
something my world fights
in its own orbits.
The choreograph
of the resulting
dance hold each one tight,
prescribed moves allowed.
Repeating patterns,
the blessed outcome,
damnation the key
to the lock secured.
The good keys don't fit,
the ones blessed by all,
so they pile on high,
discarded as trash,
if trash were hoarded,
praying redemption,
while titling over,
ready to then fall.
So I hold the center,
the prescribed one,
outcome paralyzed
by the expectations.
I'll breathe my last breath
when the middle
collapses by
the weight of the world.
© 2015, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved.
