I stare through my reflection
In the bottle on the lawn,
And see a blatant disregard for
Something once adored.
I know that I'm the cycle,
And that I 'm my yesterday.
Yet I serve no point or purpose,
Just a corpse-to-be, delayed.
Grappling with the hungry beast;
What brought me to this point?
I capitulate on broken knees and
Spark another joint.
A smoke or line might feel sublime
But dulls the telling Truth,
As bottles keep on piling up
And days of haze erode my youth.
The corkscrew gleams alluringly;
I break and fall like snow.
As failure dawns thus conscience scorns:
"Predictable? How so?"
© J. J. Bardsley - The Dharma-Farmer™
2007 (revised 2014)
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