Everyone assumes I spend my days in labour
returning home only past a setting sun
to a wife and child and woes that grow
from feelings of dearth and disquietude.
I do not
labour through these current days —
trumpets blow and wild winds roam
across every righteous ridge I pick
to ease my broken back to health
(awaiting another adventitious
heartache).
I do not
let any shining star set
beyond the field of vision met
of that conscious mind that rests
amidst the shadows of success
[in past tense — don’t forget].
I do not
notice a homely hearth lit
nor the joyous laughter of youth missed
as I find a front porch filled
with the silent snow of past weeks.
I do not
feel. Urge. Or regret. Only desire
to shred these fey lies — to bits.