A Trance, Almost
I dwell not within,
gaze not beyond,
but compromise precisely on the shell.
Scratch the earth,
soil under my nails,
while quickly the surface refills behind me
and hardens itself before me.
Stain my fingers green,
pull the weeds,
yet audaciously they grow right back
or grow fiendish thorns as I approach.
Wage losing war,
battle the cold, hard steel,
blacken my hands with the grease and oil
of a myriad stubborn engines.
I dwell not within,
gaze not beyond,
but compromise precisely on the shell.
The fruitless struggle fritters my youth.
16th May 1998
Copyright © Lawrence Sharp | Year Posted 2018
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