Not here to make you smile.
Manic and motivated. Can’t figure it. So desperate for a story. Starving for the north.
The young boy, now a man, sits in dread of imagined threats, and bemoans his station.
What is this? A flash of light. Then into the ground.
When we sit and sulk, time crawls.
Deus ex machina, the way of man.
Sitting in that old chair again. Strumming in a minor key.
Don’t mourn the loss of minutes for a moment.
There’s no bird in the sky. None perched here. Not one over there. No chirp, tweet or song. Neither and nothing.
Deus ex machina, the way of man. Invented a rationale, to salve the conscience.