What Matters

 

Now is not important;

Nothing really matters.

Your latest wheeze in shreds,

A whole month’s work in tatters.

This is not what matters.

Your ego is the thing

Controlling this charade,

And in a cowbell’s ring,

Lines spoken by a bard

Or low skies dappled red,

All timelessness is stored.

While close by, in the head,

A devil’s dreams are moored.

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Comments

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Stephen Gospage

Mon 10th May 2021 18:09

Thanks to everyone who liked this poem. It is an abstract work, and probably dishonest, because things do matter, even if we don't want them to. Still, it's nice to suspend belief for a minute or two.

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