Que Sera Sera

There has been endless accounting
An adding up-to-the hilt of better ways
A rough-and-tumble accepting of the no-way-out
Expectation running dry, like weathered skin.
 
Lifting a finger has become an awkward flutter-down
Tunnel vision swollen, leaving the banks
Running away from its self before it causeways
Sediments break in to their almost song, time-outs.
 
Evidence of grief stage left and hung up in the fly loft
Blocking on cue, mistakes worm-a-way into the writing
Worthy of a rigging, the brightly painted heavy parts now a chore at the just-so-happens
Flapping, nonchalantly in the wish-for-a-breeze, a real before-you-know-it.
 
First-thing-in-the-morning comes closer
Stands solemnly at the nearly-gone
The fur, licked clean, like downed weeds with no vegetables growing
As un-turned earth lies defrosted, hoped, waiting for a seeding
With tiller silenced and moons gone by, not this season.
 
Hunger goes down-the-hatch like a food not invited
As if a hole-in-the-wall will fix-a-thing
As if a need-to-know will free-for-all
There are limits to capacities not undertaken at the outsets
At the drawn-in-the-sand, at the switch-turned-on.
 
The keeps, keep keeping-on, rollin' with the changes
More should-have-done is on-the-way
Some could-be-had, alluded, defiantly, behind closed doors
Winking, winging-it, supposed and waiting on a curtain call, applaused by what-will-be
Either way, always-an-option is at last, decided.

 ©
5 29 24 19:45