This Mourning

by Michaelw1two One’s conscious, proves unconsciousness, therefore, its rest is sleep beyond one’s owned depths; days past, soothes time’s exhausting thirsts, before the wind’s churn, stiffens a mind’s limp sails; numbered, noted, nothing’s odd naught, self’s trials, those dear toward life’s slow cooling descends; remembrances’, suffer each fate, awareness begets truth’s thoughts, these melding deep. Equal such, these rapture’s lone bring, reaches fully, into one’s centered ideals; each mist, each shine, each conscience strength, enlightenment’s song, and how one’s sorrows reel; lifetime’s crude, flows ever and slow, change direction’s helm, across a lifeline’s tell; legacy fixed, or is it chance, settled nothings this, these ides that batter self. Forevermore, through life’s result, differences thresh; one’s sea at odds by awe’s this; such mores, such just, affect depth’s thoughts, elicit too, of mind, heart, and spirit’s crest; decisions substance, vex time’s jewel, life’s gist, it’s trust, the wiles of conscious resists; forbear such nonsense, minds ascend, purpose supported, above all time’s constraints. One’s ego then, at odd’s beyond, under nourished bread, upon one’s tongue is placed; fortune’s due, sum fed hollowed self’s, scored lowbrow dunce, opined nom de plume posthaste; against these facts, begged nature’s true, throughout each life, one’s timed lines remain untraced; success, neglect; passed horizons, time insists thus: let not greed’s touts, US disgrace. Michael Darrell Walker