Seasons Of The Self

at the first hour
this morning
he puts his best foot forward
at noon
his hands the best palms
the plain white fingers
to the sun
in the afternoon he feels betrayed
and asks himself
what is he doing? for whom and
what for?
at night he stops
meditates upon
the deeper oceans
of his whale
existence
he sends the message
to the other end of the
continent
he says yes
what am i doing? what for and for whom?
there is an answer
but it is too late
the desert has already
become true

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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