Clockweed
a record of circumstance
a recipe for psychiatric suicide.
a nameless purpose, curling
within arbitrary seeking, lurks
slightly above natural law, courting assault
from falsehoods that exist, partially
and in synergy with wrong turns
and dead-ended promises.
time powers hope, less long than
ardent, trusting logic to heal fear.
a rushed tribute ends
without the expected cry of
anger at onslaught.
you should have stayed the long and known
you could have pulled a honeybee
by its tail, kissed nectar from its feet
and enjoyed a spray of spoils
instead of yielding to self-starvation
instead of ducking the blow
you allow it to be what it chooses.
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