rests upon my head,
where cobwebs and stilted cogs lay well rested
in their beds,
the machinery’s movements have ceased,
Weariness allows me to take that break,
but behind the scenes I’m still ruminating,
I simply disguise it from him.
once carefully measured with closely observed time,
makes me wonder now whether the path was worth
the efforts to propel me so far,
because what am I doing here with this life?
that intelligence comes in many forms,
not always those tested,
of Aptitude, many are assured.
to be something more,
to perform something else,
to rise to the challenge and advance myself,
it is not only in the mind that Desire does seek,
a triumphant case,
in which I can alternatively speak.
have I sucked you bone-dry from the pages
I have to tend to?
The parched paper with its annotations and highlighted markings
grins at me,
resonate reminders of hard work and times oh-so studious.
Whenever I am down on myself,
I simply need to glance at my words,
the violin fingerings,
the sheet music’s markings,
and I understand that I have worked arduously
at several crafts,
and have returned to the original craft of my own.
are like cadences softly spoken,
the melodious cessations of my
I’m not performing at Life so badly,
according to my efforts
I’m trying to better myself,
there is no need to sink, sink down,
to aim a tirade toward myself,
I am improving,
through the efforts of no one other than myself.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Jorge Guillen from Pixabay
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