My115thDream

Dave's Mental Meanderings
2004-02-27 01:16:01 (UTC)

Poem - "Sunday Afternoon Summit"

Sundays seem to slow to a stroll
In this rural mountainous town.
Farmers sit by the general store
With pensively simple frowns.
Young men’s faces are loud empty places
As the week is put into perspective,
The seventh day seems always to play
A role undeniably connective.
I with my plans of productive engagement
Find that I won’t be excluded
From the aura of thoughtfully quiet repose
That Sunday has always exuded.
I met with a friend with whom it’s been years
Since I really sat down to talk.
The breakfast we planned couldn’t help but expand
To include a three-hour walk.
Much like the days upon which we now gaze
When nostalgia renders us lost,
We sunk our shovels in the earth of the past
And dug down to the last layer of frost.
Hearing my words unwind in the wind
That really should blow more often
Helps the fog to drift on its way
And the stone of the sword to soften.
Nothing’s made certain in front of the curtain,
For this is solitude’s task,
A Sunday summit may deliver no answers,
But it brings forth the questions to ask.
A wiser man than myself once posed
A query that envelops me now,
In the words of a song of a world gone wrong,
He asked his listeners how.
How to avoid falling back in the loop
And going through with all of it twice,
Now I’m forced to find the answer by taking
My own once-mistaken advice.
“Time to move on,” I said to myself
And perhaps it’s more true than I thought,
To avoid drawing out the bitter end bout
That surely one day will be fought.
The passing of guilt from smashing what’s built
I’d do well for myself to quicken,
So I might see the light and not cower in fright
When my words from the record are stricken.
I’ll forego at this time to write one last rhyme
That speaks of a sense of conclusion,
Tacking on a false happy ending
Is to drown oneself in delusion.