The Village Blues

The Village Blues

 

by Seah Greenhorn

(poem with copyright)

 

 

 

This world
a market.

All's
bought or sold.

Time, energies
mind, body or soul.

Price
pebbles and rocks
or silver and gold.

Atmosphere
musically

black
or rosy.

You decide the rhythm or tune.
Where the notes are played.
The location. The room.

Heart's desires puppeteered through
eyes focused

or opened wide
to
circus performers whose
slight-of-hand picks pockets
unsuspecting

upon selfish demand.

Initially

piqued by stalls
wherein lies
mirrored walls
of vice and fire.

Then

fail to notice
now only lint lines
pants once ladden
with heavy treasures.

Light and empty now
once flightiness rose

stole all
during fleeting
and temporary
pleasures.

Thought
hands of clock
spun on your side.

Found darkening hours
camouflaged
as lovely seconds
sadly sapped
revigorating powers.

Left you alone.
No beauty to cover a naked hide.

So there you lay pasted
on the docks of doom

wasting.

Away goes
the shadows and moon.

A sun too bright
depletes you more
as dry your throat
and thirsty your core.

Given a drink to rejuvenate you
your hand reaches

for quenching water
from a boat sent
or dehydrating
alcohol and beers
from passers-by lent?

Which is more valuable?
To what do you hold dear?

Your choice to choose
since you are parched.

One generously offered.
He's done his part.

Which,

in the end,
will help nourish you;

lift you up.
Encase your feet
in comfort shoes

after removing your
toes stuck in muck
found as quicksand-like land
on muddy grounds

or the
pavement
of performed nightly

Village Blues?

© a day ago, Lucretia Mccloud