Mail (day 1815)

A callused hand is my tomorrow;
You’re never far behind.
Leave alone the matted mess
That flirts with every question
For in the envelope of time
Was never sort of guessing, no,
All that was ever called
To surface of the law
Was packaged neatly, sorted, drawn,
And placed into a manilla – shut
Stamped with half ones love

Mail by Ned Tobin

Extraordinary (day 1508)

The minds of others
Are so extraordinary
Nothing normal
About conscious thought.
And even if it were,
Even if extraordinary was ordinary,
Was so mundane it
Barely passed as thoughts,
An outlook would certainly
Be something other worldly,
Something I’d spin my head at,
Look twice
And repeatedly question…
Because fact is
It just wouldn’t be my mind,
It wouldn’t be consciousness
And that truly is
The remarkable condition
Of human nature mixed with existence.

There I Lie (day 889)

There I lie
Face turned towards the heavens imploring
Seeking questions
Yet written on my mind

Sun scattered eyes
Blurring crimson edges
Setting fire to
Out of focus pins and needles

Before deaths cry
Wind whispers shallow markings
On seasons frozen skin
Betraying movement

And forgotten
A heavy coat leaves
Memories
Without occupation

2013.10.23 - Prince George Trails

Speedy Descent (day 442)

Perhaps then they would call my name
As I sat there above the clouded peaks
Awaiting the answer to the question
Begging my return
Begging the sweet angels rising up
To hold my hands in speedy descent

But like any searching soul
The answer proves within
No clouds can clutter the footpath
No unruly goat-beast can charge me
From this high scraping crag
Legs and arms holding me fast

Then Zeus, lighting bolts striking close
Leaves in his wake a sharp message
The answer cursing through my veins
No escape now from the brutal truth
No silk crested nymph to calm thy nerves
Returning to the fountain I call

There, and only there, lurches forth tremors
Sent from the deathly legions
Calling spoils to all things left touched
Rotting corpses and swarming flies
Wrenching the senses limp
Twisting and writhing: no escape

Years upon years
And only then in shame
Shall the torment stop
At once its halt
Will leave you dry
Endlessly searching like I once