Blues One: Internal, Literal

The vision of youth -
out on the playground,
it was there and we saw it
coming and going
hard fast and magical, spherical -
wondrous
pitched between two knuckles
by big authority
with a slippery spit release
and it just happened that the sun was high
and you said you were blinded -
and you said you were wounded -
and you struck out by a mile
with only the swoosh of air between you
and magic.

All small miracles gone in an instant.
The innocence of cracks in the concrete -
and how an insect was a day at the theatre
if even for a split second -
and everything was new
every sound, every sight -
every dirty word -
every lie so perfect in its truth.

And now you're a thirty-something
and even though no two snow flakes are the same,
no two rain drops alike,
every stone in your well manicured lawn
is left unturned
and the tribes under them wait cold in rot
for your hand to reveal them -
to see them and to realize:
there's more to this existence
and nothing is more than you'll ever need
in the end.

And vision, method, the movements
quick and uncontrolled seeking gold
in the drab corridors of adulthood
backed into submission, into a corner
and the sign on the wall reads: responsibility
where every truth spoken - is a lie
every smile formed - is a cover-up

and the gizmo in your pocket says:
"five more miles to work"
and you're gonna be late -
again

stepping forwards in memory – a new story
but not much farther now
and you see it,
there it is,
on the horizon
all that was - everything that is
larger than life, greater than nothing -
blind and meaningless
all for the sake of what is expected of you
by others
without vision.

And you wonder how you missed the ball
while seeing the light
but it's sinking now
into obscenity - barely worth poetry,
or the cost of your shoes.

Get back to work.