336. WELL THEN, WHAT TO DO WITH THESE HANDS

WELL THEN, WHAT TO DO
WITH THESE HANDS
I am always alone, in the most savage way:
an articulated sadness, a glorified gloom, something
that can bend with the moment. Good times, bad times,
who can even tell the difference? Watching people talk,
waving their arms, or putting their heads close together,
merely leads me to boredom while gauging their strengths.
-
In the end - all it is - I really don't care.
I met my factored doom - that which
was brought in for me on a very-personalized
cart - on the day I was born. I've been with it now for
years - dragging it or pushing it, depending on which
way I was headed. In my day, I inspected carefully each
item laid out on that cart. Non-plussed, like a deviant,
I merely continued on my way...intent on something else.
-
Or so it would seem, have seemed, did seem.
Now - filled with weariness, and worn - I just
wish it would roll away, be over, exit the premises
on some fiery, prancing, steed. But, alas, I
cannot seem to put this horse before this cart.
It is all this effort merely to break my heart.