where once

the weeds are high out in the field,
the days are growing long —
so much of life we grade by yield:
how much, how far, how strong —
it’s silly, really. isn’t it?
The way we all keep score —
    where once the world seemed beckoning,
    it welcomes us no more.

the journey seemed to have no end,
but then that came, abrupt —
the licensing of lunacy,
the venal and corrupt —
we build another fence outside
a house sans roof or floor —
    where once our arms were opened wide,
    we open them no more.

the same begins as ever ends,
a unity in time;
the poet strolls through empty bends
and straggles for each rhyme.
and love goes begging for a song,
to dwell among the poor:
    where once we knew why we were here
    we seem to know
    no more.

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s