Poetry

That May Be, 14 (135.)

There may be
reasons for a lack of focus,
but they are hard to find
when one’s eyes are darting back and forth
and one’s brain can’t stop leaping about.
So a slow walk through gray matter pathways
becomes the norm,
with a shrine of peace and clarity
always hiding just around the next bend.
When will this high energy fumbling end?
A dreary, boring matter, this struggle
to think properly.
Yet work demands it.
Planning, clarity, project completion –
these are all attainable, desirable goals.
Fun is only a click, scroll, and a new tab away.
The wolves are howling, consistent in the background
while the moon sails closer and closer
to make a devastating landfall
and send all plans packing.
Run, run, and hope
adaptability is your greatest skill.

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