There is a certain, sad obstinance
to the grainy leather of soul, which
when rubbed habitually worn-shine
that even age cannot mimic...
why do you worry so? In the end
there is naught but the beginning
rewound, re-played, theorized,
thinning, over-used and badgered
(haircloth of thought stretched tightly
around the fragile body parts of longing)
I have been there... too many times
in many forms, but always there
like the cycles of worm, cocoon,
glorious agitated flight-
straight into the grisly teeth of death...
Soon, you will remember the quiet days,
count them as stamens in mouth of flowers,
every yellow pollen appreciated for its
unintended, ill-conceived journey.