My Blue Ribbon Wrangle Box

I refuse to think of these days as melancholy. The “s” has been missing on my keyboard for about a year now, and in that year I have felt great pleasure, surmounted great obstacles, and have wrangled and tormented over false outcomes; the delusory greener grass. Yet these are the days I am to discover all of this. I am to walk out of the cage and stand back, turning around to gaze at the various compartments of my Blue Ribbon Wrangle Box: The hinges, pulleys, ropes, splices, bevels, strapping, horns, buzzers, clocks, and radios that have encumbered and ran its chaotic push towards A function built and conceived by man. I am outside of it now And I dare threaten to call these days melancholy just because I miss all my meaningless gauges. At yet I still stand at the doorstep, in the silent light where Luminosity begins, the saddest place of all. It's here that I find attainment in one direction and attachment in the other. My Blue Ribbon Wrangle Box haloes from the white glow of a hidden crescent moon.