No Such Thing As Losers
Treading feet-clubbed into daylight, baring bone,
shorn of fleshtone, gaping vulnerable;
sitting ducks begging for hits
to the bullseye;
unknowing of strategies to swallow us,
part and parcel, dismantled bits.
Walking slowly, uncertain, dawned confusion:
"What was it they said, what have we bought?"
Sold on dreams of tongued gold,
corrosion lapped;
taken by life's flimflam,
conspiracy theorised, out in the cold.
Never were there Indian Spirit Guides
pointing blueprint paths to follow;
life untended to decisions made
in starry-glazed fugue;
dumbfounded, frozen shrug of shoulders,
the leering face of hope decayed.
There are no such things as losers
only people who think they know
of who and why, when and what,
and in their knowing,
in their steely zealous mind snares,
snap justice at those who do not.
You and I are no one's losers,
what we have transcends charades,
their half-existed hollow rigmarole.
We soar a different plane
of shimmering sweet harmony,
aesthetic victors forging our spirits whole.
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