The Poet Has A Troublesome Day

When I am tossed about by raging storms

I drop anchor.

My soul leans out, 

lusting for dark adventure

Mischievously, 

Conjuring new and ingenious 

ways to fail.

This anchor of bones and flesh and blood

Tethers the unruly and murderous rage,

In ways grotesque 

In ways mundane.

Sometimes I am impossibly charming.

I tailgate because I believe driving should be fun,

for everyone. 

I am neither here nor there.

I have not left, nor have I returned

Blissful is hardly a description for anything

Worthy of mention. 

I perish in a virtual purgatory.

Perhaps I do not I perish.

Perhaps I drown.

Do I drown?

Or do I just become water. 

Derek Earl Houghton