What good is your life, if you’ve been told it’s not yours?
That you need to follow somebody else’s; someone
with a shinier mask than yours – home
The storm that rages and decimates calm shores
doesn’t follow another one, but you do.
With all your sanity, you drift into the road much trodden
where the grasses
have forgotten to grow. The uninspiring throne
is your bed. You don’t lust
after women, men – you are
raised to lust after a bucket list.
Your legacy is yours, like the crow’s nest cuckoo’s, and
the circus a joker’s.
The river meanders along paths unknown the first time it
jumps from a mountain. Thousand years later, the waters turn grey.
Souls turn grey too, only there aren’t enough eyes