There is no peace

There is no peace

Even in stillness

The air is humming

Pregnant

Full to bursting

Oozing precipitation

Prickling damp skin

Wearying dry bones

A disconnect between

One hemisphere

And the other

There will never be

No mind to pay

It is as active

As the line of ants

Foraging a path

From one side

Of a garden to the other

There is lethargy

Slothful inertia

Holding the earth bound

In an overstuffed sofa

It might as well be

A cat’s cradle,

With the red tape

Patching the arms,

As extraction

Continues to

Prove too complicated

With an intricacy of

Strings attached

Thinking can take

All the time it needs

Until the skies open

Time will come

When the spirit is free

The swallow

On the wing is a prisoner

Of its genes

But in flight

It soars

A thing of beauty

To the faint of heart

Too busy

Cloud watching

To be.

Daly missive for Friday the 16th of November.

There was a smell

Eye watering

Inconvenient incontinence

Stale sweat

Soiled clothes

Stuck together with

Overlapping stains

Everything hung

His trousers were

At half mast

As if he could

Just shrug

And leave them empty

He held out a cup

I was caught

Captured by his gaze

A burning fire

Raging

From deep within

The darkness of

A shrunken face

Surrounded by a mane

Of wire brush hair

Red rimmed eyes ablaze

The tin cup chinked

A coin offered

Gifts gratefully received

He muttered

Reaching out a clawed hand

Taloned fingers

Dirt encrusted

Broken skin hot with fever

You have knowledge

I heard him say

But it is as nothing

Without the wisdom

Of understanding

How did he know

What was his story

What was mine?