He runs cold fingers through his hair
Touches silver linings that age has left there
He’s too content and too tired to care
Recalls old friends as he had friends to spare
And what do you make of this?
And what do you think of that?
Well I saw his soul strip naked--
The beast tattooed on its back.
He cleans, dresses, drives to his work
He wakes up in the morning--that is his perk
In a moving metal box he fakes berserk
He heats up, sweats, peels the back off his shirt
And where are you going if I may just ask?
On a quest for time between eight and five?
Perhaps it’s deeper than footsteps you leave--
There’s proof I was born, not proof I’m alive
Whittle the morning mind into a real person
Lest your blade dull, and your sense worsen
The ethereal sheds, becomes earthen
You live doubt to doubt, dying to be certain
And where’s the child from these pictures?
What have you done with the life you live?
Do these people know about your real name?
Where’s the work I’ve done and time I give?
Poem by Neal Abbott Brown: Interdimensional Jungle Cat and Enthusiast Extraordinaire
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