Streeterville Blues

I’ve conflicted thoughts with farewell

though I can’t explain why.

Perhaps, leaving is tied to motion—

the constant need to uproot,

tempt mutability.

If that were the impetus

some clarity may be possible,

but this constant dowager of reinvention

diminishes clarity.

I’ve no love for temperance,

nor the plague of temerity;

yet time corrodes the most stringent logic—

exposes fecund folly

in the brittle recesses of

purpose.

It’s all here-say for the heresy of stasis—

that insidious paradigm that inevitably corrupts

the benign mundanity of the everyday:

Surreptitiously unraveling the solidity of Virtue,

Obfuscating the compass of Wills,

Re-calibrating the abacus of Wants.

Yet, as the precipice taunts promise

—meandering possibilities endless and infinite—

one can’t help but look at the debris-laden streets of former days:

when ravenous eyes gorged in excess.

Soon enough, this too shall pass:

days bleeding into each other,

memories muddling to mosaic....

This epoch, long gone

forgotten amidst the pandering nooks

of a wayward heart.