lundi 2 décembre 2019

Only Fuckwits Tour the World

I by and large keep dwelling motionless
But sometimes some flight stops off southward bound
And while they line the ridge I try to count
Them roughly, vivified in my recess.

Should you surmise that I’m not born a bird
I notwithstanding feel bestowed with wings:
There’s further distance in the realm of things
And more belonging than can be inferred.

Since destinies amount to destination
Mine isn’t done with pondering to and fro
And watch a fledgling host come, sit, then go
And register their drive and hesitation

For there is always someone ready last
That is, I’m just the one who follows past.

December 1st, 2019

Almost the last to take wing

Aucun commentaire: