My inscription is not listed among the dead.
In time that posture will have its long awaited privilege,
given the peculiarity of consequence and certainty.
For now, I tread upon the treadmill of time
where it’s difficult to find balance, even after
tossing up a blade of grass to see which way
the wind bows and bows, for I’m nothing more than a brown
leaf blown in the wind. My essence doesn’t represent
forward progress. I digress with frivolous speech.
Someday, I will sod a part and parcel of earth. Someday.
Hopefully a sprinkler system will on a daily basis
quench my thirst. There, I will find rest from my life
bound by contemptible behavior. Plant me as a tree and see
if I don’t return as a wooden lamppost looking sentinel,
where birds take to perch, and animals find refuge from
the storms of daylight, and earthly contempt.
© 2018 by emmett wheatfall