Tympanically we ask ourselves
Is this the rhythm of the drum?
Is THIS the life, the cards the well of tombs of sons?
Do we try to understand the comprehensive ways
that people live that people die
that people live in haze?
Because we know the truth is that the problems that we see
Are not of men
Are not of God
But simple pleasantries
Now doesn’t that peace pipe keep going into the smoker’s mouth.
From left to right into the night it goes and goes and goes.
The dances of the shimmering light exposes itself mid-air
And with a boom the light has loomed onto the lakeside bed
Upon it are two merry frogs
Whose names I ought forget..
But they sit and drone with “ribbits”
Thrown from leaf till end they sit
The drums have stopped
They long have popped
Their times has long expired
But through the days
And all the ways
The life I have is mine.
A medium length poem about my random musings.