O; The Creeping Motive Of Time — Of A Mere Runaway

I Am Mere Possibility! [A Reflection Of A Life Long Lived Ago] — Sightseer’s Poems

The Hound hangs his head and watches the thin ripple of the clouds fill up the ochre sky — Does he weep and sign, or remain contained in his finite accords?; His Questions Remain, as do you Still?

©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms

Enjoin! —

The passions unceasing me; easy was never the

Drowning notion to be alive —

To be lost in the slurry of thoughts, and resounding colors.

Their faint whirr refracted throughout the airs;

May you humble prince, make the boot polish shine to

A kingdom beyond what has come!;

A Turbillion any vast eye may contend it to —

The sensation was vaster, but the reflection was gigantic always:

With its lumbering limbs, clanging against the holy unsigned

Walls that encompass the prism of being still.

Pray at large, and see it,

The Hound hanging his head, watching the thin ripple of the clouds fill up the ochre sky — Does he weep and sign, or remain arrested in his finite accords?

A Question to remain; a Question to the seer by the words on a wing;

If one could happily ask what the word is that is being met out beyond

A haven in the endlessly shot sky, of all the rays and tumbling abuses

Behind the layering matts of this world,

What clue would it have unto you?

Humbly, all are born to devoid lots; with the sly happy happenstance of it being fecund by a recent happening — be you wising custodians or not. All by those ruffled crows on the eager brows of disdain;

Staining what? — what? — what? Ere this pallet? Ere this canvas? Ere the painting before you? Nary —

Born to the unfurnished log, is how most must make do; Either a hound made to the sculpting forces to tire, Irk and force the soul to be beaten down, Like the wood that is Whittled away into the mark of the crafter —

I was there, so young and terrified Repeating as was the due penance of being —

Of all the possibilities, it seemed to offer — Naught else was more attractive than the journeyman.

Courting myself so young as I was, I saw the fancy, I believed I did take those chances —

A mere child east of here, I always believed;

Where most offspring were taught to adorn

The black shirts allotted lives by order,

I could not — I suppose I was always the suspected coward,

Or daring run-away; I ran from that home.

All the false starts and unenviable leads

I was but a mere Possibility! — I gleaned most proudly,

In the smirks so befitting to my uncouth nature,

And my belief in that confidence’s man, charming me

Out from harm —

I mustn’t affront, I was gay to the sun.

Letting my head drift backward,

I had my skin gleamed over by forces

Beyond my fluxing zenith there.

I was a mere Possibility — no clear suit to tie the burdensome ties;

Though I miss it now, then I wouldn’t be so assuaged in

Believing in anything else, but the mere sensation

Fizzing around me, like a draining circuit, that it was,

Now and then;

Out underneath from harm —

All biting the moon,

All gone now, those tucker-tinker boys;

All the sports revealing themselves on

Their jingo, or because they could;

Oh, to court such careless youth — I could never do so again.

Onetime was the possibility enough!

I was Possibility — imagined in those staunch wheatfields.

No rye or corn, but endless fields of golden fodder.

Skipping in my stripping reveal —

Query in the bedazzling fancy drew me on so amicably.

Oh, my sweet, unearthly child — how you would rise,

To engage yourself in those shuddering falls.

I was a mere Possibility — O; hi-de-hi-de-ho!

The responses were cold, the envy, staring at nothing —

The courts would find the idea old; smirkingly, my lines go on and on to the millionth sign of all returns; that is how I go!

The violence of their capriciousness shook me then

Like no further power — I suppose that is the hassling of the coin;

Sojourn, I would, and daring on, I shall go!

Enjoin! —

If knowledge was, what knowledge would be;

If I could’ve known then what this would become —

Of what I’ll ever be chasing in the sly fabric — I wonder if I would have;

To court the Cosmos, to go gaily on my strident ways;

To fair that cloaking imposition — blackening in my mind;

Away from house and home, I would run so far —

And naught would hold me to stop on that approach —

I spun those tall tales,

No one would’ve believed me, yet I did what I had to do — Let that be final.

Let me arrive from furnished farrows — To end being the browned dog, staring up by the leaving of time — The departing of the time.

Once had the chances All Biting The Moon, for the happenstance whereof

Brawn to the haystacks — as they prayed to their thralls,

Pocketing smarts and the fondness for their already

Ordained peculiars —

What does the hound remark to all of that?

{Through A Hund, I tell you}

Through a hand I am fed — Through the warfare of hounds, I am bled;

A possibility too terrible, it is all but wielding you now —

Holding up your life for a long time now; the precious thing

Consuming you away —

Possibility held away by compliance with the rotation,

Orbiting an occurrence so belittingly had —

Stray grip, chiding away from my hands, the red ribbon

I tied myself into that monstrous abode.

Death would come to someone without any importance —

As it foredooms us all, so seemingly without tastes!

A sensation wild, a sensation hemorrhaging on

The full-out blaring of the melancholic,

So apparating as being the full-clothed horse

To this ousting acclaim,

Of life without —

The minor thing.

I was a mere Possibility — O; hi-de-hi-de-ho!

Knocking fractionally on the door,

All hailing, yet ever so frail —

Shall she answer, shall she exclude that pillage;

O; such are the very thoughts of you —

I was a mere Possibility — O; hi-de-hi-de-ho!

A bout of the madness, diming me to Kristina;

O; you shall know her name in time, as what they’ll

Do to my name, after my ends have arrived

Whence her siring was done in attune to.

I was a mere Possibility — O; hi-de-hi-de-ho!

I have little disputes about how it goes;

Ever & on, I go and locomoting is what

A Landseer does best — regardless of all my regrets;

That is how it goes; Soever in it may be the chances hereafter.

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