Terrestrial Salvation

by TOM WILSON

Wake up it’s a beautiful morning,

like the infinity of a closed chain;

lists keep growing, brain-freeze again.

As long as there’s tomorrow, not today.

Succinct intentions imprinted by a hoot;

how can a sub-conscious refuge,

de-commission the projected truth?

A 24-hour religion, is that all it is?

So which way is it to be tomtom?

Intrepidation never failing,

or honour ‘the’ grand unveiling?

Side-step: back to back-warming Oracle.

Pride appoints a distilling of hidden stature;

forget the dentistry of a mounted gift,

sensitivity not deserving an emotional spendthrift.

No mentions of a game, but you have to play.

Rationalising the intensity of late;

surely that’s an impossibility of squirming feet?

Solution follows a tryst of the elite,

subjects must therefore be; for it to make sense.

Periodic patterns of revolving chrome-vanadium,

lends itself nicely to discontentment

and occasionally promotes relinquishment;

summer sun; does it matter?

Survival make-up – check.

Abrupt journey’s end; in your face.

An odyssey not started yet, offers no grace.

Relax, the gods haven’t even begun their terror.

The bottom of a barely coping universe it might just be;

curious are the similarities to sinking sand.

Submerge as you extend your hand?

Or do I just simply do nothing, and nothing happens?

Rat-out the analytical introspection monster;

for when you can see your own reflection in a black-hole;

a bonus penalty shot at life’s ultimate goal;

then a neutered Neutron star is a good thing to be.