Refutation of The Wandering Mind

I am awaiting my party and wishing I was at yours

For I have invited three friends, who just might come to blows

At my sacred place where all my serenity blooms

Like the brightest purple lilies in sacred summer groves

Strife bred this auteur, a fact that they do not know


The ships float ashore with sails ablaze

As many give up hope of better days

And I stare at the waves hitting the rocks

“You’re here now, isn’t that enough” I thought


“You’re riding the waves at the start of a small adventure

Letting the wind blow through your hair, you thought you’d never get here

You allow the sun to greet you and yet you are miserable lost in your own winters’ sphere of disheveled disorder.

Hesitating over enjoying your vacation because someone else might dislike how you steer the ship.

Why? You’re at the helm, you control your pleasure and even the measure of your misery.”


Then the question strikes me like a lightning bolt


“You hypocrite, you aren’t at the helm of your life are you?

You sit here bored as hell at your own party

With friends who hate everything about each other

Why did you try this, don’t let your words sputter like a nutter

You are the shadow of them

One and the same don’t pretend.”


So I turn my head to stare

Stare at the fighting friends who fake smiles to fit in

Compare them to the sailor, so lost and frail within his little wooden floater


My conscience drones on, “Don’t believe for a minute you haven’t had your ups and downs.”

Your failures profound, once discovered, could resound throughout the densest of forests

You dote on them, obsess over them, and live with them as if they were medals on your chest

So why are you psychoanalyzing and thus patronizing those who are so much like you and all the rest?”    


I stop and ponder this puzzling question my conscience has thrown

Considering the answer that will send him wherever in my mind he calls home

A grin grows ever so slowly along my lips as if sown

I open my mouth to quip


“Although my life is simplistic, and often I am told I need to be realistic

I sit relaxed knowing that my hopeless hideous heretic heart calls out to another and doubtless others like me.

So I may lounge here and rearrange phantom verses

Inspired by Aristotle’s Poetics

And reading random credits that my artistry procures

While watching old men sail across the blue lake.


Sure I may rant and rave over hating where the hand of God has placed me, halfway to Hades

And so be it if my life is piloted by Charon across the river Styx (I wonder if that’s down in the Euphrates)     

As I hand my Obol to that dreadful; idolater of death and destruction

I embrace my life, its form and function

And I may not have the means to save a million human beings

But if these words sate the woman in my dreams

It seems the correct price to pay

For these people need not sheeple who pant and prattle their useless wares

But a glimmer of hope, love and the warmth of a voice that says ‘You’re welcome here!’

So begone demon of my own creation, leave with your leer.”


As I finish these thoughts to say

“Happy Birthday dear.

Wherever you are, and in whatever gloom

I’m right here beside you

Talk to you later and I hope to see you soon.”


The End

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