Longer days bake in sunshine,
cloud-covered light, misty rain.
Turn a blind eye to silver linings,
like a hobo possessed by pain.
Does it matter? (In the end?)
If we bother climbing mountains once again?
We could rest in the shady valley of self-offend?
Will it matter – in the end?
Glance closely into my eyes,
revealing the shadows in yours.
We mistaken plan-makers in downtown Boredom,
neither seeking nor reaping rewards.
There’s that education
There’s that re-creation
a canvas for creation
– Then it’s done.
Sun sets again
on right or wrong
in timeless tides of wallow, here and gone,
Like The Prophet.