1.7.18 – Tipping

I don’t want to hear any more about what you ‘almost were once’
Your through-rose-colored-glasses-cast past-tense fantasies
Facsimile, similar only in the sense that you’re living next year’s story still
Spare me your good intentions, they’re stops you never made on your way here
Where did you come from?

What are you made of that your recipe doesn’t explicitly list?
What do I taste when I’m near you – I don’t want to hear you
Pining for the life that you too missed, all that’s gone unmixed
Unless your soul-stirrings render any sort of reality out of you
Unless you’ve moved to produce a new facet or two out of your confusion
It’s as ephemeral… and now it’s already ancient history, incapable and unworthy of discovery

Someday you told me you were about to… but then life happened
As if there were anything else happening
If life gets in the way of you living, you really are in a sorry state
You’re making it as it makes you, the beach between will and was
No grain waits for the waves to pause, nor does the sea seek an inland lap
But the balance is struck on just that front, and we call the sea as we see it, be because and in spite of it
The tide might guide you by its own logic, but those who tread in place can’t blame the water

Consider yourself a leaf on the breeze and you’ve already lost the will to live
Dropped off and ceded your green to other tree-steepled, fare falling to the whim of the wind
Is air too to be blamed for refusing to cessate, ferment along with you?
If ever there was a futile fancy it was in they who proposed that time alone will tell us anything
It will tell us everything, and you’re worse off with that than you are with a blank slate
Then, at least, you’ll have no choice but to be more, every stroke new, every idea a breakthrough
We would rather wallow in our insatiable search for knowledge than steep in a simple truth
That being that being is its own reward, and you’d spend your victory lap reviewing the receipt

Meet me at the crossroads of all that you will never fulfill, and we’ll drive in circles until we’re blue in the face
In the passenger seat is your fear, not of failure, but for your lack of a map
Your soul the backseat driver who’s never led you astray, still you mostly demand that they look out the window, stifling
And how clearly it all blurs past from that vantage point while you stare straight ahead
Unable to brake, and unwilling to challenge your perception of what may or may not be beyond the city limits

Climb to the top of a mountain, but before you do ask it kneel before you, place you atop itself
And after, look out over all those who were like you, and understand why it did not
It’s not a matter of anyone pulling the ladder up behind them – it’s the ladder which makes the summit worth anything
Would we be anywhere without going there, and if so, what would any place be but between the last and the next?
What a way to turn all the world to a snowglobe; to make yourself even smaller than you started
If only we would take a single step with our own feet, a single sidewalk would hold a new universe with each



That thing that you had been hiding for so long – didn’t it kill you?

Didn’t it claw at you from within; twist you to nausea like guilt so often does?

Maybe you’re just stronger than me – I know that’s what you thought.

It pissed you off that I always kept my cool. I made a point of keeping it, and I still do.

To you, my lack of hostility made me soft. I never knew what the thing that made you soften was.

Your entire life you were falling, and you never let me catch you until you were caught.


I’m walking briskly like the breeze

As it’s whisking through the trees

And we’re both doing so with ease

And yet I’m wary with good reason


For the temperature’s a tease:

It’s getting cooler by degrees

Still balmy, mind you, for a freeze

Is quite unlikely for the season


Still a skeptics heart would seize –

It seems it’d take only a sneeze

The skies to pop, populace flees

And dryness take a try at treason


But now… the clouds must hear my pleas

Deem them sufficient to appease

Without my dropping to my knees

The sky beheld – so quelled, a boon


Because for now there’s but the breeze

And time for birds and boys and bees

To sing and saunter as they please

Til nigh’s the rising of the moon


I wander the streets and ponder with no particular purpose

Besides deciding; confiding in you that all of this is perfect

For in between mean days, screen plays, curtains and curses

In this whole wide world you’re something that’s certainly worth it

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