digging through the trash-bin
located roughly between my ears,
the ideas squirm like maggots,
gorging on the slacking, lacking

and unused fecund words in a pile.

spelling the word lone, needing
and adding an 'a' for balance,
my ego teeters on the last part;
alone. existentially alone, sure.

but alone alone. now that's alone.

so finding a kindred; seeing a cloud
voluble but firm measure the skies
of our walking worlds, we grin; grasp.
a recognition of death but not our own

meets us at every corner, a grifter.

so words stand in, a verbal sojourning
into our souls, carried for tomorrows,
lent from the pile of left yesterdays,
skinned knees, bruised egos. lost tabs.

all meet us at every celebrated moment.

08/30/2008

Posted on 08/30/2008
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan