Author: lbstowe

I exist in a state of underestimation.
In thinking & ability…even libation.

Always one bad choice from ending up in the E.R.
There’s no running or dancing & no driving a car.

Every meal is medicine; rarely welcome fun.
I even have to watch the temp; hiding from the sun.

I don’t mind the regimen that buttresses my health.
I don’t fret lack of agency; I prefer the stealth.

Yet I think, when all is well, that I would like a mate.
Someone to excite my heart & quietly relate.

It’s easier sometimes to talk to ghosts.
Say, “Hi”, to minds who’ve discarded their hosts.

Simpler, often, than a fight for the mic.
Neater than jostling for each turn alike.

They rarely talk; preferring sage silence.
Acknowledge only, no volume violence.

Their answers are in your mind already.
Recall their voice when their hearts beat steady.

Just say, “hello” when they enter your brains.
Nourish your friendships on probable planes.

Traitors are often subjective things.
It matters in whose way their mud flings.

From their perspective, they’re the last line.
Maybe one side holds their toil divine.

Another side casts them fabric’s tear.
Some, on t-shirts, their visages wear.

The sanest place is always middles;
Bridge to extremes & burning fiddles.

Time is alone in clarity seen.
Heroes & rebels rarely split clean.

Up first, the worst; in most every sense…
An orphan of fate rides in on pretense.

Then second, I reckon, on red horse rides…
Bully & fighter; the line between sides.

The third, I’ve heard, enters selling meat pies…
Weighing his profits; whilst swatting at flies.

The fourth, called forth, needs no introduction…
On his pale pony swinging destruction.

At last, & fast, comes the end’s sweet relief…
These old mythic stories beggar belief.

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.