Ceramic Birds
Ceramic birds, never struggling to disentangle
their ponderous wings from that
which truly does not matter.
Why can they not see
those things from which
they should extricate themselves?
The minutiae, heavy,
reminiscent of dead weight.
The atmosphere thickened with useless trivia,
like an old, old morning paper.
Flying low, barely above a sea of indifference,
bowed down by that which,
if put into perspective,
would no longer plague their plumage.
Getting Knackered
Feeling as Atlas who carried the world,
and one misstep would mean a painful free fall for all.
When does the sun grows weary of the light that saps it?
A restless soul, ever weary, of traveling and seeing beauty?
Does the night grow weary of the dark as it runs down?
Does the heart grow weary of hope?
How do we embrace the new without diminishing the old?
The mischievous jeer
of those who tell me
that the solution
is only a dream, a hope , a wish,
professed by they themselves,
also weary and bone-tired,
when the truth and lies attack in tandem.
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