perpetual crescendo

There is a wind-swept version of your life

In which you are not the star

You are the sidekick

You are the set-wittled

Cutting and chopping but never

As confident as the finch that mates for life

Under the guise of monogamy

Like a British king

With six successive cats

In a Manchester swamp

Unadulteratedly unhappy

In your broken down Studebaker

At a gas station next door to your house

Parked behind a cop car without tail lights

Far from the stretched, forced structures

That timetabled your schooling

Where you went uneducated

In a foreign family home

Eating two minute meals

Lukewarm hugs

Even your parasites loved you more than a mantle

Or shelf

And in this windswept version

You never guess is never correct

Your foot is never fleet

Sans luck, sans swift

Not humble, but humbled

Not meek, but made

You are the shell but after it’s used

You are the wrist but after it’s sore

You are the pleasure but after it’s tender

There’s a sneaking suspicion that has eluded you

Its great at hiding and you’re terrible at seeking

It goes on unknown, an unknown going on

With traces of it lingering after its been

After its been or after its left

Either way, it’s always gone and when you’re present

Stopping only long enough to suggest its existence

A flittering mist

A dash of light

A reflected milestone of indeterminable achievement or award

You should save up your wits

Let them stew in their own accumulated interest

Wisdom stored ages

Gets potent

Ferments

A black hole increasing in mass

A snowball rolling into itself

A parallel of a parallel converges like four dimensions becoming three

And this will be the longest line

A possibility

A supposed goal