With no experience of impediment, his walk without blemish,
He observes with amusement, the curious steps of the man who walks with a lisp.
Alas! you must forgive for unknown to him is the hernia genitalia.
A dashing smile across her face as the dress enveloped her torso. Those feminine contours relax in proud gait.
Down the isle, her eyes catching the rotund figure. The discomfort, all too apparent. The dress exposing her failure.
The stroll would be pleasant and the wooing complete. The crown would be well received and the proud head adorned in splendor.
But cursed be the nail that stuck in the lining and sent his expectant mind wondering.
Damned, be the agony that ruined his walk and set his plans at naught.
It was summer and it was hot and everyone was happy. To the town, we went and the car our ride as the air we take on the way.
Fastened and secure in our seats behind we laughed in excitement. Fed, watered and loved, our joys we hoped no end.
The doors now locked, the windows up to keep us safe and sound.. Mother and shopping, food for thought for we must preserve.
The humid air of our breaths and the heat from the exterior. In the absence of ventilation, our cries no more, big brother watches but hears not the cries from the luxury metal casket. We perish in silence. Drowned out in the noise of the day
The engine roared up the drive and purred its way down the street. It spluttered and died without warning and left us all aghast.
And right outside, as we discovered later, a big ripe banana up the exhaust.
The young lady once was a paragon of beauty. Her face in the press, a million $$ a week.
Her presence brought fever to the fans adoring. But now alas! ends no longer meeting. Behind her in tow, their cheeks in rosy bloom
Adorable the two, children from days of passion.
The other side of the road too far, the feet stumbling in weariness deep
The metal caskets keep streaming and their fumes come pouring. Her eyes obliging the effects of the gas, involuntarily.
The cough unbearable, the mist unseen. Industry, it is called but pollution arrests my tomorrow.
“I am tired “. He groaned as he looked at his paws. The feed he last had was surely his last. That wretched mountain goat led him astray.
For he tried to run it down, and oh! a bed of nails. That dinner for all it was worth, for the poor lion, had no savor at all.
The impediments and straight-jackets. These are the cells of our time, virtual and real.
The prisons of our elements speak the language of defeat. The checks and balances and the surrounding negatives.
Arise, my friend. Wrench the chokes from your neck, but, bold be your stride for they abound that seek your fall.
And those great strides draw short breaths, especially when dreams stagnate and you are held stifled.
Patewood lines Copyright © Reserved 2020