Wed Apr 27, 2005
Well, my parents made it back safely from South Africa and they seem to have had a good time, they came back plumper and in good spirits. This week-end Angela and I are going up to Whistler for our one year anniversary. It should be awesome. Anyways, here is the weekly poem, as promised. You didn’t think I was going to talk about me did you? No, never!
The milling madness returns
Weariness alone taints my dreary disposition.
Manifest as the milling madness taking position
In my spirit’s home; the temple of bone
Dressed in flesh, yet never hewed in stone
A malleable masterpiece, easily corrupted
A soft mess too readily sculpted
By those soft mad hands.
So it is, Defeat seldom signals an end
Dogged by malcontent, I toil to fend
Off the stubborn foe poking burgeoning holes
in my riddled temple.
yet, in their slow conscientious way, I know
those fingers, those ruddy bulbous digits,
Will depress my flesh with relentless
meticulousness and find my harrowed soul.
I’ve written about “the milling madness” elsewhere, and this seems to be a common theme for me, it’s the feeling you know when your body feels so very very tired and weak…it’s paralleled here by the vulnerability of the spirit. And those “soft mad hands”? well…I’m not going to enunciate anything, take it as you will.
chow for now