by Steve Wardrip


I came here to stand,
Nothing else worked,
Futile ideas, execution,
Slap down, put down.

Hell with the rent,
I’m on a mission,
Too many missions,
In the street, now broken.

He was just here,
Tried to sadden me down,
I stood my high ground,
He hobbled away.

Now I make something,
From nothing,
A task taught me,
By mothers.

A life, just a heartbeat?
A soul just a whisp of smoke?
A planet, a man, many?
A you is who? High ground?

Nay, much more,
We can’t see or know,
All there is or what’s what,
We’re alive. Good enough?

Yes. Good enough.

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