At the End of the Day
What to kneel for at the end of the day?
For someone to erase the meaningless hours?
That tick, tick, tick away
Or someone to water your dying flowers?
Or is it for that which is missing
To be found in another?
Or is it just someone to listen?
Or is it a perfect body of art
And the slenderest of limbs
To be admired and pulled gently apart
Never detached and always tuned in
To the primal needs of your heart.
Or is it to find joy in repetition?
Or is it just for someone to listen?
Or is it for the fruition of a scheme
Or acceptance from the chosen few?
Or to find respect and simple dignity
On a beachfront property with a view.
Or for power to hold over others
Or just someone to bother?
Or is it for the return of health
Wasted on devaluing your true wealth
And pawning it for a broken mirror
And holding it so near and dear—
And a rope to lasso illusions
Only to wrangle more confusion.
Or is it to ease the pangs
Of being preoccupied with the wrong things
And all that the games of ego bring.
Or is it for someone to listen?
Or is it for the mingling of souls
To be greater than the sum of duality;
And that the tears of mutuality
Will cleanse narcissistic woes
And that grief’s heavy gravity
Will hang like rubbery depravity
From the boughs of every tree
And fall like the heartclocks of Dali
And melt softly in the ground.
To beat in real time now.
Or is it for the dream of a soft angel’s quilt
And the sweet taste of wafers without guilt
And the Beast within finally thwarted
And the red sea of wine never parted
In the veins of every falling leaf.
And in all living things.
Or is it to attain detachment's silly grin
And the fruits of all wisdom;
Or that attachment itself
Will prevail over creepy crawly ways
Or that the progress of the self
Will defeat the advance of decay;
And that the soul itself
Is not just a product on the shelf
With an expiration date.
Or is it for an answer to the things
That will cease the thoughts in your brain;
Or is it the promise of escape
With someone who can share your pain?
Or is it for the dream of dustmites
Dancin’ in a sunlit swirl on the stairs
And the sound of footsteps on the right
When nobody is ever there--
Or is it just to sleep
With the light unseen
In every living thing.
Or perhaps it's just the nape of a neck
Or a few strands of hair;
Or the warmth of a body there;
And that you will find comfort in repetition;
And temporary relief from primal things;
And that tomorrow will be new.
And not just a variation
Of brilliant hues
Slowly fading.
Or is it for the sweetest sleep of all;
To wine and dine with angels
And never more to rise;
To watch the Monster as he flies
With the things under the bed
Said, done or left unsaid;
Ah, yes, to sleep, perchance,
To where there is no past.
Or no hope in tomorrow.
Just a return of what was borrowed.
And to dream of an angel’s soft quilt
And wafers without guilt
And the Beast outsmarted.
And the red wine sea never parted
In the veins of every falling leaf.
And in all living things.
