Ghost Birds and Satellites
A Pondering of Life
I sit...
In the tepid nonchalance of reality
With the pulsating sting of mortality
The universe, yet to answer my queries
Of to whom I exist and why
The ambivalence of life beyond this
From afar...
I've watched fellow mankind
In algorithms of normalcy
Writhing in traps of grandeur
Liberated yet chained to
The diseased American Dream
I ponder...
Oh, great creator, will I ripple?!
Quake beneath their streamlined paths?!
Silly me. Silly me
The universe hasn't time for queries
It's occupied with wrecking itself
Hours on...
In the pastel haze of liquor
Amid ghost-birds and satellites
I realize - that the answer
Is not worthy of the question
So I'll count fireflies instead
Forgive me. I've digressed.
It's 9:03 a.m. now
I'm late for work
(c) 2017 Esteban Luis Soto
About the Creator
E. L. Soto
E. L. Soto is an award winning published poet, writer, singer, tequila aficionado and Sommelier.
Keep reading
More stories from E. L. Soto and writers in Poets and other communities.
My Time at Willie Nelson's Recording Studio
Yep, you read that right. I actually got a chance to record at The Red Headed Stranger's studio. It was 2003, if I'm not mistaken. I had just received my certification in audio engineering and I was ambitious. Right afterwards, I was given a brief internship at Willie's other studio (Arlyn) but I wanted, or rather, needed, to be at the original in Pedernales. After some convincing, the studio managers decided to let me record a few bands there. I put an ad out on Craigslist and instantly received inquiries. Being that I lived in the live music capital of the world (Austin), there was no shortage of potential clients.
By E. L. Soto4 years ago in Beat
He Loved Her...
Can't speak yet she hasn't forgotten how to think Can't feel yet she still knows what is real Cornered she just cowers Tallying the hours until she's free Struggling in darkness to find the key's grace That will relieve her from this suffocating embrace
By Nichole Campbell5 days ago in Poets
We'z Walking on a Path Ruled By Numbers
This road has felt endless, yet limited; every step tracked. Inching away along this path, I feel trapped. Confined. Left to this narrow passage that may one day amount to something greater. Time is not a concept. Only distance. From start to finish, I laugh and cry and attempt to convince myself that this is worth it. I cannot stray. I must keep going. Every step etched, is a step taken, is measured as more than before. I cannot even recall how I got here. Maybe I don’t even really exist. Just another tick marking off a perceived presence. Of what though? I am just another line drawn. Nothing more, nothing less.
By Oneg In The Arctic6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.