I am tired of feeling the weight of years
Like the muck sucking at my life’s boots
Each step an effort of defiance.
Defiance is the oxygen to my brain.
To what purpose I have asked myself,
Does one choose that which they are to be
Or is choice only the pasturage of the wealthy
Unclogged with the principles of existence?
The chains of expectation drag one into the mire
Shackled by the commitments for honor, for love,
Keyed and captured in the clanging of our words
Spoken only for lack of reasonable thought.
A dream scape flashes the past faster and faster
The projector dies trying to keep up
But the pictures have not faded from the vision.
Time does that when the bulb element ceases.
Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 
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