Poetic Cliché.

Poetic Cliché.

seaside weary, lifeblood
of an American oversaturated love song
am I not the ground beneath my feet?
the dirt between my nails
and the footprints in the muck?
Watch as I race,
drink, and breath eternity
down every bottle, every breezy path
lined with oaks and plastic bottles
My nature is to observe
to stand as a cascading mountain observing
the clouds pass through each other to
form a wonderful storm

I wish
I wish for who I am not
as many men do
I envy the top sand of the big hourglass
in the sky
wishing to return to times less noisy
less efficient
less preachy.

How I yearn for a fire
a pyre of saints and homely wives
intertwined by ions and millennia
of gracious nebulas and spiraling
black holes

And how I do pray to the earth
that she will forgive us
only to fall on deaf ears
on a silent breeze
and calm zen of her Wu we
We are of her nature
all our warts and freckles
our suicidal desires
and whimsical dreams are bred from her
plains, her valleys, her oceans
and soon we shall return
and breath new life into the children of another age.
Stars.