THOUGHTS FROM THE OVERGROWTH

The child looked up for the familiar orbits of his mothers eyes

Like the sun and moon they were expected to return and reassure the seeker

Mother was up dressing the kids, preparing breakfast

Father sat on the side of the bed wandering what went wrong with his life

All was repeated a thousand times in the sleepy village, never to awake

Each future motion and gesture was predicted and expected without failure

In the dry, predictable, wet rain soaked daily dreams of the flock, nothing grew

A child looks for inspiration from its creator and receives nothing more than inpatient demands of consumption.

Raised voice in the kitchen, deflated sigh from the bedroom and outside the herd shuffle their way toward nowhere important enough to rush to.

The march of progress to forward motion.

A grey dream, awake