Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Change

Change

Hurtful things
Done over and again
Make my sorry
A quiet fuck you.

If I could stand on stage
with an audience of those I'd harmed
Throwing bricks at me until their arms tired,
The sight of my wounds
would but allow for me,
A time a quite pleasure.

What depth of feeling is asked of me then?
When this path has been worn to rock and stone,
And all feeling twisted dry by repetition
And pain the place I hang my hat.

What new promise would allow flowers
To bloom in a salted field?
If the promise were the only seeds
And the field lay edging a well worn path?

No thing or man can change its self.
The cycles soar around our will
And the circle always comes around
And the better has to be enough.

Change is not a sonnets turn
That meet itself to sum the lines.
It's a loudness taken suddenly,
Till the weight and force of habit's  born.

And then lost as if a madness;
As if a smell or a thoughtful crime
Until the wheel revolves
To rub again,
On rails that run
unbent by favored chance
sliding on against our will.

Mike Brady 2008

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