Waking late, I look for an excuse to wake at all. The unrefuted is a warm blanket and a soft bed. The metaphysical is uncertain and often times unkind. But I never refuse an offer,
especially when it is free. And while the next round will eventually be mine to buy…
right now, it is someone else’s burden to wear. The more I need to rest, the more
redundant I become. Aspirations are no longer sharp, the words “ready and set” trail off…dull and evanescent…like a spirit forced to linger…when all it wants…is to simply run and hide. I like simple too, which is why I seduce in the company of influence. Carefully peeling back the covers, I afford the watchman with something that must pass his time. His
purpose is tied to mine, his difference is what I know…and will never follow thru. I am
wicked for those who pull me up. Their hands are soft and welcoming, which makes it
easier to let go and fall into my way. Eventually they will grow tired of reaching, the oars will return to the ship, the seas will rise to embrace a future course. One where the tide will hold no grudge, its current will no longer seek umbrage from the lethargy of despair. As I will steadfastly remain… the sullen bed will bruise my back, the blanket will be too warm. In the dawn…the excuse I have become will have to shoulder all the blame.