Flat on Your Face and Up Again

By
Tripping.
Falling, flying.
Barely passing. Head popping out -
Just barely under the waves of a dark blue, rushing
Past in a sweeping, never-ending, pounding path.
Dealing blows, knocking the life out. And leaving
Your mind a chameleon canvas that can’t change.
No more rainbows of emotion for you,
That train has left its station.
You’re covered and drowning -
Drenched in a thick, black, and gooey, never-let-go-of-you
Kind of noxious paint.
All the splotches, glimmers, gleams of hope washed
Away for good now,
And never to return.

Not tripping anymore, trapped.
Stuck - in a rut, in a wretched decomposing mess.
No time to clean up, too late for that it seems.
It’s snowballing now.
Not the powdery, enchanted, snow-angel making sort,
But the piercing, brain-numbing, blizzard-ing,
Heart-wrenching kind of cold that conditions
Any quickly paralyzing body
For Death’s welcome warmth.

You can’t clean up that mess,
Can you?
Never say never.

Clean up your act, pick up the pieces,
Get back those chameleon ways and cope.
Sew up a safety net and slap on a smile.

Hey! Why so glum?
What are you talking about? Stop that.
Stop it. Now.

You can do it if the guy sitting next to you can.

Pause. Recollection.

Aren’t we all in the same leaking boat floating in the same waves?
The same trudging masses making our circuitous ways through the same perilous storm?

Reflection.
It’s life, say the wise and conditioned ones, the ones that know.
The ones that have lived to tell. The ones that didn’t lose sight,
The ones that gained a third eye, foresight.
They insist, persistence is the key.
They advise you, me, everyone:
Steal some speed, catch the flight, aim for the stars
And soar.





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