Down Town Auckland On a Bench With a Habit and a Pen

I am the environmentalist in love with wine, my shoulders carry and reside in the cutting edge side of life, the establishment craves to be the human race while I stroll the memories of “Sailor fields” amongst ancient Jurassic stone. Is this! The only way for me? My saline tears run freely now a days, it’s time that governs one’s sentiment, no doubt the plague of waiting relates to this. What! Of the future, hey , i want to forget about futuristic wars, may be the media are in gross error of judgment? I’m told I’m only a little man, at last now I know why I’m the one that society chastises every day, Why this mortal flame in constant combat becomes life’s tomb stone around my neck. To feel freedom, another swig so my lacklustre eyes again become stimulated as the view overcomes my immobility and bids farewell, to the great lady that glides portly on the outgoing tide. Curse this elemental wind that curls in from the east, “Mother” i cry “Is this the clarity of our beginning.” the start of all this crap, as astringent thoughts flow through my urban bucolic mind, seeing or feeling nothing of the moment, only a repeat of the actions of many insensitive men, those that flourish, those that sentiment cannot stain those that walk tallest amongst men; because they were hungry for appurtenance. I remember well , in the far off lea of my mind, down on the farm thousands of miles away across the Pacific, where enamel clashed against concrete there , where foolhardy dreams were dashed,. when the heart pursued the warm flesh , she that gave her reflection to the swan song of an innocence. Alas should one be compelled to expire as one would, a chardonnay basking in the hot sunshine? Should one fall foul of a politically correct society that , outside of one’s comfort zone, because one feels , want , in choleric veins? Even the sullen white cross, dotted upon the highways become burning embers, a constant reminiscence, an emotional monument to many inhibited memories. Yet I beg this deportment shows me a realization, that death is imminent, so why this perpetual waiting, this constant urge, for this vein dependency to be infringed upon ??? © Harry J Horsman 2012