On the lam
from the infectious buggers
that, insidious,
dig in and make themselves at home–
such confounded
and staunchly nestled squatters. . .

I’ll rest or run,
as may fit my own best guess
midway between the neatest logic
and my messy intuition,

Perhaps will suit
a funny compromise
between great distance that could shake them off
and get me free,
and firm bravery
this ground to stand
and here
make friends,
or at least,
make peace
with them.

Sometimes when life goes not quite
according to my preferred, expected tide,
either it or I
or both
seem very, very dumb. . .

But when certain facts
rise up, assert themselves,
they won’t be fought,
and I may as well succumb. . .

But that does not really
have to mean,
that the walk
along that way
can’t fascinate me in between
or that it won’t be any fun. . .

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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