THE MIND IS A RUNAWAY THING
I sit tonight on a ledge of snow, nearing
a Christmas Eve with no more to go.
In a very tired year, one in which
everyone has been complaining about
something. I won't linger, though I'd
like to stay another, yes.
-
There seem to be talk-a-thon voices
everywhere now - used to be one would
get paid for that, or raise money for some
horrid fund : Twisted kids on a telethon;
raising money for injured soldiers; or
funds for war-widows' compensation.
Now...it's done for nothing at all.
-
There's little logic in chalkboard
computing - marks like steeples on a
mathematician's slate; perpendiculars
and symbols, arrows and brackets too.
It all leads to the same dead-ends, I
suppose - needs for salvation, they
say, some infant's odd birth, barn
animals, magi and magic stars.
Again, what's it all worth?
-
If I were carry this ball of wax to the
depths of space, the sun itself would
surely melt all my conclusion; leaving
me, like Icarus, an absence without
a trace, except some stain upon
the ground beneath me?
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