Counting Rice

It's raining a stream

Of digital consciousness --

Clean, tiny in-between measurements

Chopped up to the hair-tick

So as to accomodate for

The maximum number of outcomes.

We're getting more precise

With every step.

Counting rice.

Splitting halves to fourths.

Slowing progress to a point

Of irrelevance

Merely to cowardly account

For every risk.

So much set-up

Becomes our get-up.

Craving that

The next increment be in our vision

Before we fiddle with moving.

And so the flaw in the theory is told:

We're travelling in

Computerized hops

And no matter how much we chop up the distance

There's always a stretch uncovered

'Tween A and B:

Fearing the inner dissonance

In the middle,

The belief is abandoned

That we'd be better off

With fretless guitars...

And for all I sing,

Unswayed the winds remain --

     "I've been putting an adventure on lay-away,

     Placing an exaggerated amount of stepping stones

     Tightly across a pond.

     And I'll be applying gallons of ultraviolet screen

     Only to find the sun down

     When it's finally on."

View grahf's Full Portfolio