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What is this sickness I feel in me?
Something the docs nor science can see,
Not in terms genetically,
Nor of biochemistry.

Is my ailment even physical?
A result of my biology,
Or is it deeper, deeper still,
Free of aid from any pill?

Does it bleach down through my heart,
Into my soul where my being starts?
My spirit tainted as by poison dart,
Deep within of waters un-chart.

The cure is of spirit, not just inside the mind,
Not of the exterior, the physical, the rind.
Could communing in the sublime and hope
Be the answer, the antidote?

The shadows are longer, and cooler the sun,

In the morning before a run.

The world is calm but not silent,

Still quieting from the eve and her violence.

No one around to hear it too.

Is it even too early for the dew?

I stretch the soreness from my joints like sinew,

Preparing to plunge feet first at my cue.

Jumping into my pace from a pace,

My breathing settles into cyclical sound,

A point of focus amid the sonorous waste:

The cacophony of chirps, bleats, and rustles around.

Breathing is now all I hear, cadenced with the beat of my feet.

My mind wanders as I drum, thoughts cascading into clarity,

Demanding my full focus, with rapacious full frontal temerity,

Yet they manage to slip away at tandem speed, as if bikers on the beat.

The half waymarker just passed on my right.

An about-face later and I’m on toward the line;

I keep my pace, calves beginning to bite,

Both lungs working and starting to whine.

Nearing the close, my mind becomes singular.

I break into a sprint against the past,

Thinking only of the now

Hearing only my labored, metered breathing

Feeling only the striking of my feet

Pushing me fast as I will to go

Toward the end of that final line.

My young tired eyes
Have seen the light,
Both of the days
And of the nights.

They now gaze
With empty longing,
For simple times
Of calmer thronging.

A lively pace of
Life’s tranquil days,
Not congested or crazed,
But elegant in pace.

To calm it down to a drudge now,
And enjoy the somber light all around.

An amorphous world within my sight,
A tepid rain
At dazzling heights.

I want to go play golf and I want to take a swim,
And I want to cook all-out after I soundly sleep in.

I want to drive around on a scenic static weekend,
Gaze all over up and down at the secular scenery,
Hop out the car at a park of nature’s maker’s mark
And go to singing shouting loving all the leaves and trees.

As I run all about around now in joyful merriment
I snatch your hand and I don’t let go of it,
Until you look me back, tell me that you’ll stay in this,
For this moment is all we have now to try not to miss.

It doesn’t feel like a proper day,
Not at all in the proper way.

This one
Has been done
Without any sun,

Without any joy;
This day is so coy.

How I await
With all but hate,

An ardent time
To truly call mine
Through any ole rhyme,

So that it may feel like a proper day,
Though perhaps not in the “proper” way.