At the Barrels Bottom

" If you find yourself lost and struggling at the murky bottom of a barrel, sometimes it is best to wade and wait for the rain to lift you towards the top "

Stuck, slow, and stiff. Treading in a pool lacking any character or quality. A cool breeze, cold & numb feet, an immobile mass. Well, I'm tired of arranging what never gets clean. Near delirium torn without hands or feet. Haven't been known to exist so low. This cigarettes ember is the light of life. It's burn weaves down a straight white edge into a territory merely labeled, still unexplored.

"Should've, Would've, Could've," Desiring the lightness of the breeze but I'm to heavy to be moved by it. Laden with thoughts to appease what is thoughtless. Then.. a tingle & a breath; I'm stil susceptible. Keep it, hold on... at this point nothing can wear thin. A motion of a grindstone, but a movement none the less. Breath, finally a shuffle of the trees. This weight shuffles with but hardly shifts, mellows, or even bats an eye. This disguise has been melting into something less vague, and well.. it's something.

When trees never seem so hallow, I feel so indisputably sick and worn, tired. Well think, no, just settle at the bottom of a barrel where the wood bears no crack and the water is stagnant with the bite of dead fish. Time takes quality so it's a guess when restraint clicks & doesn't take time. Redefinition

Ron Paul did alright in Maine. He barely missed Romney and previously in Minnesota the snow unfroze the vote of many. I'll be here yet again without capacity or conclusion; with boxes & bindings and quotes. I walk with this cigarette held up by a limp limb, without question, just an uneasy crescent of not wanting it to end, not soon, allow me to be so I may redeem my luster for life, rather than ideas about it.  The tobacco smoke reminds me that the flame is never fully extinguished.

The mits are off, my soul is stagnant, and my feet soles are frigid and numb. I step into the yard and let go of what hasn't floundered, the flame is extinguished yet I'm still here allowing myself to live. I walk past the threshold and close the door. It isn't a feat, it's a step, a step that is marked but left for another to measure.

I enjoy the beauty of a gate rusted shut, a board game without the potential of pieces to move, the flowing waters that drip into a sewer grate, & an abandoned building echoing the footsteps of a single ghost, feeding off yesterdays dust.