The Edge and the Sheared

The Edge and the Sheared

I sit at my desk

a cigarette does burn

I listen to the radio

speaking words that I know

and the music beginning

is heard by the chord

saying, "Life's soft mission 

was forgotten."

The candles are lighting

thin shadows on walls;

the clothes of my fancy

lay on the floor.

It is all vanity

for the heart to ignore;

ignoring the fact

of the matter.

The ashtray is full

of burned wishes and hopes;

seeking the current

searching the source.

For a word in a memory

or a face on the pond

is cleansed by a spring

e'er renewing.

The music mimics my

my inner-most mood

repeating the webs

of past offerings.

Of the joys and the sorrows

only meant to attest

for the will of one's

boldest striving.

I gaze at my words

both written and said

logos of swift

imagination

they turn and they spin

like flies to a light

attracted by their own

misconception.

And so it will end

this mood I am in

deserted by the muses

and singing a hymn.

This is life at its shortest,

the edge and the sheared,

wasting the existence

between them.

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