Left, right, forward and back,
with the thoughts of yesterday
and philosophies gone by
at the head of now’s mind.
On the other hand, whichever
of the countless hands it
seems to be, it seems to me
that tomorrow has arrived.
Heat below rises; the chill of
a winterless winter night
leave the only worthy tools I own
in a sad and hopeless state.
It’s a paradoxical world.
It’s a series of colliding lives.
Whatever the madness may be,
it is a sensibly random collision of beauty.

© Blake Leitch May 12, 2012