Grinding

 
 
It’s all coming to a grinding halt.
All those years of making
And trying and playing.
It hasn’t worked and its stopping now.

And a sense of failing grows
Like a vine though my mind.
What road next? What turn or twist?
What way to go to stay

Sure as rock and solid,
That I might hold my head
In cocksure certainty
And hope to be a winner.

I’m on a raft and bouncing down
This torrent of white water,
Carrying me off rocks and dying.
Only the pace seems important.

How long will this last?
It just goes on.
But some friends smile
And a gentle word makes it all worthwhile.

This form is strange stuff
That makes such a trial.
I don’t know how to manage this
But maybe that’s the problem.

I try too hard to make it work
To fit some silly idea
Of what should be. But this is luxury.
To think like this.

Necessary planning on a route
To self sufficiency perhaps.
But there’s no such thing.
We have a world that is no softer

Than that hard bed that Christ was born to.
And the harder we work
The further it moves and we build
A wall of fire before us.

Do I give up?
Do I really know?
What is mood and what’s to see?
What is the real me?

And what is my circumstance?
It isn’t what I think,
You know,
It’s something deep inside

Some non existent existence that
Preceded all I know.
I’ll die one day.
Maybe too soon.

And then I’ll know I was deluded
And time’s much longer
Than even I imagined.
 
 

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