autopilot on the course of middle age

i always begin with
one word
to set the tone
for a line
or two
until it devolves
into something new

shaped and shifted
in the spirit of my demise

layers upon layers
overlapped and split
restless ideas
emerging from shit
seeking to congregate
and destroy
the original meaning
of another useless ploy

as cats sit in the sill
waiting, watching
and wondering why
we are carrying on

crickets call
and ready to fall

none of this is good enough
i just don’t have it in me anymore
stopped dead
just short of two hundred

and, it’s a different kind of blues
inside the brain
a contradiction
with friday’s rain
and a futile benediction

i remember that strange feeling
autumn air on a summer’s night
vaguely familiar
pandering to false idols
and pondering the meaning of it all

we are tired
but still kicking
struggling to disengage the autopilot
for the clock is ticking

on a chemical chain
trapped and walking
mercury in retrograde

we are poorly trained
and this emulation
is a dangerous game
after all this it seems
there are no suitable substitutes
for a salary of serenity


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