Yesterday I wrote about colours
Which might the soul represent
Then stopped it flowering
So that I might my mood relent.
Relaxation bidden is no rest
At all, and an oxymoron too,
Mother of all catches tested
In this time of equivocal boons.
Times and seasons flow, curve,
The winding desert of before
Arid, seeing me tired and wired
And ready for a change, to swerve.
What mean the sudden choices
Now available to me? Luscious
Growth of the soul, of emotion
On offer, if only…I could choose.
Chaotic colours I wrote of before seen
In a strange order, struggles alight
And lancing sharp, that too strong beam
Striding in memory, soulful sights.
Transient surcease in bitter anodynes
Bring little relief in the pressurised mix
When steam rises from broken cups
To mingle with thoughts yet unsaid.
My life marches onward, inch by inch,
A necessity of slow development
Exaggerated by meaningful twitches
That threaten to dilate time down sent.
Choices are a dangerous game
That we all must play, bidden
By the state of the world, of us
And how we want wants hidden…