Wrapped up from within when we need to get out.
These trappings of fortune can change with each new moon,
no need to get bogged down in the glamour of wealth, it’s all an illusion we confused with the fiction they told us in childhood.
What good will if do you when you’re six feet deep to tell all the angels, ‘well I did meet the famous and sat with them at tables’
You’re rich when your friends are the glint of gold in your eyes.
I do not despise them, those who go out to get then forget what morality means.
Desperate times and so they doctor the measures, but
I measure each moment I treasure each minute, every hour is a godsend to me.
And as they so rightfully say, even mangy dogs have their day,
I’m still scratching at fleas and waiting for mine.
it’s all about time fast or slow.
The second hand knows what the other is doing.
And me in the workings of the watch that’s unwinding
finding my way about town.
© 2016, John Smallshaw.