A poem may be too short
to tell all, yet a tome of lies
is no more, no less, a photograph
may contain in it a magic, invoking all
the little tricks we relish in not knowing, we say:
tell it again, papa, tell us the story
of times past and let us feel the frozen breeze
the unmoving ice river of time,
lock us in a room with paintings and light,
give us a song that will stop the arrow,
take away our whim and our precious thoughts,
rob us of our freedom, for we know not what we do with it,
and show us a line of words, a book of lines,
a picture of time we can watch, twisting our necks,
climbing over seats, and pressing our faces against the glass,
fix us here, fix us here,

For as much as we say
we crave
to travel, to explore unknown
lands and to taste
the salt of the rocks
on shores way beyond the visible horizon, for as much as we chase
love and beauty, we
call it a night, we
shut our doors and
lock our windows, we turn off our phones,
we say, there's always tomorrow, and
today's as good as spent,
and yesterday will make for a lovely cake with candles.

We get
tired.

This last stanza was almost a cry
about lost oars and rudderless existence,
wild dogs chasing me through a fog and
hunting wild hogs who have trees growing from their hides,
but who am I kidding I'm still shouting in ecstasy
painted face of my soul brave child of nothing,
never
tired.