Place the void before me and I will cower
Fill it and I will pulse with awe
Neither pushes me down the path
The winding way, that greenish-yellow place
I once described in my innocence.
I'm mistaken, languishing
Anticipating some outside force,
Propellant, dependent on
Otherness to accomplish bliss
Folly filling my chance.
I wondered, then, if I would live
Laughing at the speed of one
Planetary body, cynical as Iago.
When I found time could hold me
Luck equals opportunity plus something else: effort
Place before me a sheet of paper
I will cover it with echoes
Neither real nor imaginary
Ghosts that permeate my happy place
A stain excreted, proving existence.
© 2016 by Michael Jones