And missed connections:
A good seat, iced coffee in hand.
Or perhaps a Kindle, or the Times.
Duty still lingers above ground,
Dinner to be made, emails answered,
Preparations made for the next day's trek up the mountain,
But below ground, they wait because they must.
Muscles that moan with weariness,
They take their seventh-day rest,
And a mind too often running itself to exhaustion
Finds the space to just be.
Purgatory, of a sort, but hardly Dante's circles;
Rather, the antechamber,
Where the bride is bathed and anointed and made ready for the wedding-feast.
Or perhaps it's nothing so grand as all that.
Perhaps there is no "because" below ground,
No meaning sorting itself into a pre-ordained shape,
But merely the freedom to play at possibilities
Boundariless as a shapeshifter's colloidal essence.
It is what it is: enough.
So, I eked out a few lines tonight after riding out to Queens and back because I needed the self-imposed space to not get things done. Productivity to celebrate non-productivity, in a way; ironies. Not entirely sure if it's self-indulgent schlop or not, but written schlop is better than unwritten genius, in any event.
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