Carry the past on your back,
Like a
rock-filled rucksack.
Carry it
until your bones groan and crack.
Carry all
those indexed texts,
Directories,
dictionaries and holy tomes,
All heavier
than any stones;
All along a
seemingly endless uphill track,
When nothing
must be dropped,
And you
cannot slack.
Then pull
sodden cloth from washing machine,
As you dream
about
What might
have been.
If, and
only, if you had been able
To
completely control the movement of water.
But it was
always too fast, too free, too unstable.
It suddenly
fell from the sky.
At school
they taught you why,
Yet it broke
any riverbanks, sea defences
Rules or
theories placed in its way.
And
sometimes flowed uncontrollably,
From your
eyes.
Then what
made you even madder,
Than when
emotions flowed
Making you
happier or sadder
Was when you
could not stop water
Exiting your
bladder.
No comments:
Post a Comment