At The Middle Of Things

the starting point is always a rush
the sound of times is demanding
specifically
on wanting details to be perfect

there is that attention to color
what ought to be and protesting always
for what is not
the idealism of the mind and the
strictness of the hand

at the middle of the way
one feels tired
sometimes the wish to back out
settles on the skin

you peep at the end of the line
what is the use? you ask yourself
there is no use. there is no us.
you answer it yourself without even
the slightest wink in your eyes

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!