There is a path
cushioned, upon nature’s scales
calling - while shunning
narrowing - while blossoming
with each passing Spring;
which birds – chirp, with such stifled falsettos
fleeing within manic off-beat flaps,
what unyielding grip tightens from so-far – a reach
to choke-out: such a rasping mauling of daybreak’s ease.
Reminisced, peddles churning with whimsies abandon
circling, true freedom’s gigantic yard of childhood serenity
faster, at every turn as-if attempting to encircle
Time-itself, wrapped in youth’s laughter cadence: endlessly.
I sit squirming, fending-off ambition’s bite
cracked fingers – unshackling, anxiety’s oppression
of invading foreign distractions
open a page, begin
incomprehensibly sparse abstracted, scribbling
of uncouth feelings
hurling, frustration’s drafts to binned obstinacy
sporadic meditation, enlisted as inspiration’s entreaty
until galvanised to try: yet again.
I sit, stilled
mind\'s aimless wanderings
take aim
at a new canvas
less blank
than others of its kin,
ignited fingers
twitching
to trace out and give life
to these: here words
as testimony
to us few, lost
to Artistry’s
treacherous fellowship of anchored - floating,
dog-paddling
to survive
our voracious passions
all-consuming waves.
© L. B. Mek
June 2020