My divination abilities
have flown through open doors.
Cast into shadows of predictions, plans, and chores.
Sure the rhyme obsession takes frosting from the cake;
But I’d rather be obsessed with this
than trying to live as fake.
If I could foretell future, I am sure it wouldn’t be here.
Lines are blurred from broken crystal,
caked upon the mirror.
Laugh across the gateway from the hell I’m living on.
Free me from ambition to become the latest song.
And yet you wouldn’t hear
one phrase repeat, repeat.
Some may think this is talent
when there’s more across the street.
Who am I to judge for they are paid a tidy sum;
When all I focus on is the storm about to come.
Did I predict my car
would be stuck in mud and snow forever?
No, but what I’ve learned is,
make the best of any weather.
Yet, I hate the wind profusely,
as it cuts into my back.
Sun is what I need
and hot is what I lack.
Odd how tables turned to strap me to this chair.
If I left it all behind, perhaps I could get there.
Is that how I will get
to the future from the past?
Walking into distance
wearing shoes that will not last.
No one holds the key
to the metal door ahead.
The only thing I wonder is
who will share the bed.