At The Park

The days trickled slowly by
And we had nothing
In the world to do
Except count them down
No matter how fragmented
And distorted they became

We were idle
And indifferent
To the slow shutter of chaos
Ebbing away at a snail-pace
All the logic
That took years to procure
So many years
Passing at a rate
That should have killed the joy
But didn’t
Now we find ourselves
Still alive, but without a motive
Just a few little ants on the boulevard
So small and powerless
And still fiercely hunting the scent

The days would pass
Over our heads
Up in the trees
Giving them before us
The last glimpse of light
As if their days were numbered
Like ours
The benches of eternity were waiting
For the bottom eclipse
Of our glass bottles
We would sip our beers and wonder
What will happen
Tomorrow?

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You may reach Sam Burks at srburks@gmail.com.