a Stone in mud
patience is a virtue
in braver hands than I,
like a storm made whole of eyes
‘tis a joke played by minds none too wise.
where does confidence linger?
He’s a Drunkard in a bar
a Jingo when other men stand to be scarred,
yet a Dove in an intimate car.
with words on tongue tips
and lips with nary room
but speak and closer loom.
and when moments pass
and Cowardice pulls rank
frustration figures, and you’d swear the room stank.
of what? I’d pray not tell.
like a Stone in mud,
overgrown with sticking moss
one kick frees Me not without loss.
The safety that envious green provides
stifles, and nurtures
such comforting lies.
yet for greater things I aspire
than dependable ruts
and so I’ll rip Myself bloody
from the mud.