The falling slate

The Early Works

Its late and the window of opportunity is still open
the time keeps coming do the mentally done
sound waves crashing against the drums of my inner sanctum
yield nothing but frustration
A finality  of events signifiers that never stepped away from surface form

Early do I seek to release me
refresh the septum of my heart and cleanse with aplomb
it is now that the destruction of my soapbox should be
yet as long distance athletes in training
With grace this I have not far yet run

As the little drummer boy  starts to beat his drum
melancholy keys tinkle soulfully  waiting for that middle eighth to be appreciated
its arrival is greeted by the defiance of mass shrugs intial smiles are now faded
the beauty of what should be now resides as a random perception for the uninitiated

What lies beneath the firework celebrations of old?
What is it that freezes the heat of life over
What snaps the branch of a budding tree?
Why is a classic looking disposable?

Nobody knows the reason for this time and season is one for selection
justification of positioning the self and reason credentials
desire featuring the selective existential
Until selection has a firm billing damage limitation becomes the essential for survival

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