Just so you know

Faltering and flailing, through screams and harsh whispers, it all remains in a constant flux of poorness of spirit, of hope, of light that anything should end and leave a better beginning.
I write occassionally now (being daily), but the words, as the days, are insufficient and yield fewer results than a field baked in drought, left thirsty for water that doesn't exist. It doesn't exist as it once was thought, or was hoped to be. I'm tired and if I had the strength... if I had the strength.

How many times, how many ways
can the days, be counted and numbered-
ravaged, torn-through, plundered and razed
to the ground and be left buried deep
within its own walls, below its own ash:
the haze of a memory that slowly fades?

Why can the light be measured, not saved,
like the remnants of a well-prepared meal
wrapped neatly in celaphane, tucked away
for good use tomorow, or the day after?
....

The mountain was mine from dry brush to green pine
to the snow capped peak blurred by the breeze
and seldom reached, rarely touched, but by the careful hand
stretched out from a calm blue sky, and water
like a floating river or poind. Always seen a challenge,
a goal, for one to aspire to climb, to conquer,
never to hold or carry, for certainly a mountain is too heavy,
too wide, too big for a pocket, or wallet, or purse-
unless, of course, a silky sleek snapshot in perfect light, a perfect memory
lacking the wholeness of even a moment
and certainly the fullness of a day, ayear,
or the ages required to form the shear-faced cliff
of dangling men and loose rocks- the face of a thousand years
formed of ages and wearing and purpose; for a moment in each moment
of motion, of growing, of sowing, saving, spending, shining glory,
shining in day or night, under the milky stars.

oh what cruel futility lies
in the utility of this world
that started,
that ends,
that bends with each season
for the single reason:
to start
to end
to render a page, a book,
the words of the world you speak
easy and without care: like the leaf
in the air that begins the end:
the turning of leaves to a burning fire of smoldering
envy; into dry brown ashes covering the ground that crunch
beneath each step of useless wandering you take,
as the cigarette smolders teh world burns,
and turns,
and yearns for the meaning of destiny,
of fate,
of a life lacking the hate
clutched in your cruel, dull, beating heart
and you ponder upon the light
of water-the cool cleansing rinse;
or shower
to rid you of the grime of the day.