Pounded

Pounded

6 September 2012

Folly: the words that select me

Meticulously.

Vicariously,

I stand before you,

unwilling.

A double filling of denigration has served me hell;

Doused myself in complacency—achieving no subtle clearness.

Tree I am.

Moss I am.

Grounded, my arms like branches;

My feet planted,

rooting for outside chances;

A vagabond, distraught,

I travel aimlessly into the depths of mind.

Staunch drought!

Stagnation bearing no fruit—dreaming of tamarinds.

Left with my sobering thoughts:

Summer’s sepulcher has come before winter’s wound.

Time bound by five months, the lavenders will sheath me.

Until then, thoughts split up my mind like Jekyll.

Unrelenting and viridescent when I’m hiding.

Acting as a jackal especially when I’m venting

Tree I am.

Moss I am.

A living room leopard and the king of nothing.

But I am happy and this is folly to the world.

David González Valles