Drowned.

I remember a time, when the song played softly, just before bedtime.
A reminiscence I love to recall, though this today holds true to that time.
Hope was pouring in quietly, as potential held its hand, firmly, confidently, controlled.
This aged version wonders, in all those years that reach from then into this now-
What has woven itself into the striations of muscle that I was born with, to carry me through?
Beyond the regression of daring, my steady grip has tightened in what has now come to be known as
Hesitation. Twice-thought tripled by ten, decisions that still shout out for signs
Signs that best laid intentions will not always seem prudent, and so too, must they be examined.

Should I flay these words with a slice of ignorance-bliss?
Pour the elbow-laden grease into strokes upon canvas that prime promise?
Practical magic is there, living in the place I call home, longing for hands to poise and strike
Galloping off into a day spent 'well-dreaming' into ribbons of liquidity, born of ego-less demeanor.
Reasons have been coagulating for scores of months, stemming the flow of therapeutic valuables
Criteria breaking breakthroughs that lift me, heavy-handed and judiciously
Into the prowess carving mega-highway of idea-birthing wonderment.
I'm tripping in and out of the fryer: burning, sizzling, blubbering about, in a snot-dripping waste.

The mail, it comes and goes; the weather, it has its way; the clouds travel unaffectedly
The cars puke smog; the chatter of materialistic garbage peaks; the swapping of what is and what was-
Falling, jumping, running, grasping, clamoring, stammering, hammering...
The noise of insignificant inefficiencies, deafening my demeanor, bereavement- beware
What is the use of all this discombobulated abandonment of reasoning and enrichment?
I'm dragged here often, into the bane of daily motor skills; a place where priorities piss off
Pilfered, prognoses perturbed.. protagonists packed punch, pulling prowess- purged.
Immersion of that place in my heart that hides just out of reach, to this self that could use its love.

"Hands and feet are all alike, but fear between divides us..."
This song, again, this movement, this modem delivering messages; a modicum of 'The Right Stuff'
But still I "turn away..." "Human as to human..." "The future is no place to place your better day"
"Hands and feet are all alike, but fear between divides us..." "How can I turn away...?"
"Human as to human... the future is no place to place your better days."

I hear you, I feel you, I embellish nothing in this time of heavy heart and uncertainty
I hold fast to decisions that were driven hard into the earth and set in stone with cemented haste
I stretch and moan on the mornings that attempt to 'do me in' as my mind wanders loosely
I this- I that- I- I- I clamor, stammer, hammer this self- this being am I, living under constraints
The blueprint is being made, the wind, might I add, must blow forward, advancing on proof
That yes, this time was difficult, and yes, I felt a touch of scraped knees when the day pushed hard
But more importantly, beyond the wrath of my self-criticisms, I loved where it mattered.
I have four hearts to cherish and uplift; the rattle and hum of all else be drowned. Period.