With every round I fresh discover
The worldly wealth a path can cover,
The twisting turns that make a life,
Uncertain roads where change is rife,
And every turn brings altered trail;
But now that I am old and frail
I cannot help but idly ponder;
What of the many paths I squander?
With every turn I gladly make,
There remains a path I did not take,
Who knows what tales my mind would own,
Had I but tread those paths unknown;
Perhaps my friends would number higher,
Perhaps more coins I would acquire.
Perhaps some fiend would spell my end
Of such things none can quite portend
For not all paths are quite the same,
Though some bring fortune and some bring fame,
Others lead through swamps and muck,
Where dreams will fester and hopes lay stuck,
As still as sails on stagnant day,
So leads some well-trod, vibrant way.
Looking back throughout my years,
I’ve fought my ghosts and faced my fears,
I’ve made my turns both wrong and right,
In inky dark and blinding light,
And should my tale by freshly writ,
What would I change?
Not a bit
Tomato season is officially in full swing, which means I am now perpetually on the brink of exhaustion. I’ll be heading back to college in a week or two as well, and it seems apparent that I’ll be unable to continuing everything I generally do. With that in mind, I’m going back to a 1/week schedule for updating this blog. I probably don’t have any die-hard fans for this to demoralize, but I’m announcing it nonetheless.
Tune in next week, folks.
You are drifting,
Cool waters underneath,
Calling, still calling
To sink, to give in,
To succumb, to drown, so easy
The stars, too, reach for you
Always in sight, always singing
Praises of unattainable heights.
You’re so close,
So soon you’ll be there,
That impossible there,
With them, unreachable
The choir twinkles.
Just stop drifting,
Just stop sinking,
Stop doubting –
She was very much like the moon
In the way that she was locked in a synchronous rotation with the Earth
And how her face was speckled with meteorite impact craters
And I saw a picture of two men on her.
She was very much like a storm,
She electrocuted me.
She was very much like the sun:
With a continuous fission reaction exploding in her core
And a body composed largely of superheated plasma –
Plus something about how she can light up a room
Before incinerating it with the fury of a G-type main sequence star.
She was very much like a simile,
Every writer mused on her
Without ever really knowing who she was.
The packaging was very alluring; styled white with blue trimmings, a push-pump on top (this was a major selling point) and a smiling Caucasian woman applying the ointment to her face beneath the crisp blue lettering: Dermapure Reinvigorating Daily Facial Cleanser. The back of the bottle was, of course, a list of the hundreds of intentionally obfuscated chemical names that went into the manufacturing of the cream. The product came to fruition under Jim Norton, who was a rising star, and held the distinction of being the fastest developed product in Dermapure’s history. Norton received a hefty bonus for the celerity of the project, and all was well until the post-release product review the following month. Continue reading “Dermapure”
Hey there, thanks for stopping by to read this – I’ve been doing this for about three months and I’m becoming more curious about the WordPress community. I’ve seen a lot of other blogs that belong to writing groups, which sometimes manifest in posts that are related to a weekly prompt or theme. I’m interested in these groups, so if anyone reading this has any experience/information on the subject I’d appreciate it if you’d share a comment. Thanks!
Politicians said it would never happen, as did the newsmen; talking heads,
Men and women whose only worth was opinion, yet based their judgements
On naught but a fleeting frailty held in some unknown chamber of the heart.
Scientists knew, or at least theorized, postulated infinitely while the public sat,
Both unaware of the urgency of their work – No conclusion was reached,
Yet on the sixth day of the sixth month, the world was bathed in fire.
A slumbering giant awoke in the heart of America, roaring its ashen fury,
Casting boulders and cinder into the sky, souring the azure expanse to ash,
Swiftly ending all hope for peace and prosperity, awakening the American Dream
To the harsh reality of endless suffering.
For thirty years darkness fell from the clouds, sizzling streaks of soot that burned
And buried all of humanity’s work beneath the thickness of Hell, and Heaven
Itself seemed to have abandoned the lowly maggots that scraped and clawed
Their paths through interminable embers and darkness undreamed of.
Yet, with time, the light returned to Man, and with it the watchful eye of God
Returned to gaze deeply upon His reflection – Withered and ragged men,
Slaughtering and raping, pillaging and thieving, the last survivors of an ashen age,
Travelling in bands, hunting those less than themselves, feasting on the rare bounties
Of that barren desert – Less man than beast, devouring those too frail, too moral,
Too kind, too brave to survive Hell. The rock and soot forbade all growth,
Yet where life flourished, Man swarmed – bringing fire and death until all
Was as barren and cold as Man’s own heart.