Apprehension stands in the archeological site that is my life…listening. Listening for the rumble of a cement truck to come and help solidify the shifting and tenuous nature of my existence. A wet and sloppy solution. A solution to be raked and smoothed, covered and cured. Something to build a monument on or a place to park my car. The nearby grass looks lush and green but I dare not leave apprehension alone or it spreads. I stand with it on bad days and against it on good ones. I pray for the mixer to arrive or at least the gravel spreader. I need to fill this hole so it can be a life and stop being a grave.
When your emotions are at low tide, explore the shoreline for shells and trinkets.
When I take a break from my idyllic life,
trading up to paradise,
I balk at thoughts of returning
to the simply marvelous
day to day I have worked so hard to attain.
Self accusation floods under the door,
but I whimilate it with fact.
My reluctance to turn my back on a good thing
is an asset which many days keeps me sober.
I greedily seize every improvement
and hold on for dear life.
If reflections of the past
even held a glimmer for me I might worry;
I turn from all but the highest good.
I don’t regret the past
but I shall never return to it.