Friday, March 24, 2017

City Life

The momentary is my daily diet.
A sinking feeling is my gut’s sea level.
I seek the Holy Grail of peace and quiet
But calm and silence normalize the Devil.

All that I grasp, with passion or in rage,
Slips through my hands like powder through a grapnel.
There’s no geography—space is a stage
Where Paris gunshots trigger New York shrapnel.

Nervous by day and trembling in the dark,
I claw at any pleasure that leaves scratches—
Part of an army searching for a spark,
All packed together like a box of matches—

Burning to find a cause that’s worth the fight
And see by more than momentary light.

Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells

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