Author: lbstowe

Eventually, by rote, we live thru each day.
We know the rhythm, the beat & every play.

Two or three costume changes; twixt work, life & sleep.
We scant recall yesterday…tomorrow will keep.

Interruptions are welcome, or not; they still come.
Their aspect dependent on the day’s beating drum.

We rise & we fall in the course of life’s songs.
A single life, tallied fully, has rights & wrongs.

It’s a kindness we mostly exist in the now.
Past & future, ever seen, would break us somehow.

The bottom is not the best to defend.
Both gravity & weight toward there bend.

The harried can only go so far down.
Heat may rise; but in a well you will drown.

Revolts rarely topple without more loss.
Yet, with nothing left, they can’t give a toss.

The apathetic top forgets this fact.
That the poor can only afford to act.

Another truth lost in the wars of men…
You lose the bottom & the top caves in.

What would you do after the fall?
Would you be the best of them all?

Would you be stuck on survival?
Would you aid mankind’s revival?

Would you go it alone unstressed?
…Leave order behind in protest?

Would you even know who you were?
Would the past be traumatic blur?

Who there could say who you now are?
When war turns all love to a scar?

Who would any one of us be…
At that line where we fight or flee?

Wearing fresh clothing that I’ll surely soon spoil.
My garment meant only for creative toil.

Its fibers will drink up the clay, paint & ink.
It will hold memories well past soapy sink.

Its first recollection’s of its own ruin.
Soon, it’ll crave to soak one or two more in.

Up next, it will thrive as a work of its own.
A linen bound log of the colours I’ve thrown.

Finally, it will tear or will wear too thin…
So, I’ll select another to create in.

Leaving milk & breadcrumbs; so often frowned upon.
Tracks, I see in snow, silhouetted by the dawn.

Who has plucked my bounty & crossed my wooden fence?
Ghostly prints in ghostly light, something has gone hence.

Snowy crystal shines as shades flee this later light.
Darkness did disguise the thief in the deep of night.

New moon slotted in its shift just this eve before.
Hid by hidden moon, the rogue could’ve taken more.

There’s naught but fading steps as flurries blank my bluff.
Forgive the desperate soul surviving in the rough.

Keep all your euros, francs, pounds & pesos.
Keep your avarice & soulless pathos.

Take away agency, riches & clout.
Take all the power, control & the doubt.

Put by thy fame, thy fortune & thy land.
Put by ambition, thy cruelty & brand.

Bury your creeds, your banners & your arms.
Bury all your pride, your shock & alarms.

Stock up on courage, on comrades & will.
Then, douse all the lights & corner your kill.

Scale…You know? Measured things that relate size.
Are its mysteries only for the wise?

I hope every choice we make in life counts.
But, what if our best is just a mere ounce.

How can a wee dram affect a great sea?
Do lives so small even budge a degree?

All of history remembers so few.
Is change a debt generations accrue?

Life’s futility can fill you with doubt.
It’s almost just not worth thinking about.

I try to summon pride & search for a well to draw it from.
What people say that they see in me leaves me confused & numb.

My mirror must be a liar for I do not see it there.
I close my eyes to sense it, but I can’t feel it anywhere.

Maybe I was told too early that pride’s a dangerous thing.
Or maybe I’m too worried no one would get the songs I sing.

Chances come around & they all encourage me to engage.
That’s when mine & others’ viewpoints clash in ready war to wage.

Here’s the bottom line: I’m grateful I feel seen at all & heard.
I’m lucky that some see more than just a guy who’s good with words.

Fitting the story of a life under a limit.
A comprehensive blurb read in under a minute.

“Brevity is the soul of wit.”; said Sir Oscar Wilde.
But minutia is needed for the tales that beguiled.

World building details are how the inspired immerses.
Even a folk song requires a few storied verses.

The better the punchline, the shorter is the word count.
But sometimes a laugh-line’s just a story’s brief dismount.

One-liners are funny but so is a vast satire.
Ignore limitations; trust the walk, not the tight-wire.

Yeah, so…run ‘em up & fill ‘em in.
Everyday there’s that scoreboard within. 
 
Time chipped off from the time of our lives.
Counting along twixt our nines & fives.

Intent to beat yesterday today.
Resenting sidetracks along the way.

Thou shalt be waylaid most of the time.
Interference there in rhythm’s prime.

Go with the flow & keep score if you must.
The slower we go; the quicker we rust.