A man that could trace no meaning around his life,
Found the foundations
of his days to be long.
The weeks flew by,
the countryside – jetting.
Months crossed cities,
steady trains traversing,
all in the blink of an eye.
Saddled with depression – the weight of memories past,
bridled by anxiety, lead with leaden feet to a path already cast.
He mulled over family details, tired, hoarse over screaming out,
for Father was a Horse, mother was a Donkey, so a mule came about.
An obstinate character kept him trudging on, over mountain passes,
stayed clean, sterile to the core, in order to keep moving, keep pushing.
Ranges past from east to west, north to south, as far as he could see,
a burden born, never ending, Sisyphean, oasis always over the horizon.
Brothers felt his pain, remembered him once to be sane,
knew he was able, didn’t want him to submit, to succumb to cane.
A bogged down mind they helped to drain,
a drowned fervor for life they resuscitated.
Brought fire back to his eyes, a heat, fever created.
My man came around; but his war won’t end ‘till he keels over.
So he continues to box round by round, bobbing and weaving,
dodging old habit, pernicious habitats, squashing out new bullshit,
like roaches that scatter when the lights flicker, raided parasites from life.
Priorities in order, importance understood, he now knew that he could.
“But small is the gate and narrow is the way
that leads to life, and only few find it.”