Tetherball

So much our lives: a ball of clay; and so much our dreams: a
Thrumming wind. We grew so tall: too much to fathom life;
And earth—so small: a sphinx of depression; and yonder
My mind: a ghost of joy;—and painted—so grey. There’s

A lady, three blocks yonder, and she’s dying—and filled with
Bliss; and there’s a man—courting death—a gallon a day. I
Reckon such math: algorithms of life; and still—morning
Is split, a schism of screams. I watched her, as she peeled

Grapes; and such pain, shrouded with joy; and such joy,
Shrouded with pain: I welled a tear. What is this mystery: to
Nibble oranges, and die softly: only to live such grace? I
Fathom—so little; and fly—so grey; and there’s a world: a
Flame and flake: a flare and frame; but whisper night: a
Mirror shy; and conquer light: a pasture high.