Serendipitous Muck

It could have hailed an empty seat,

As easily as the fortune of hapless luck.

Literation licks the edge—curtails—

Of a surplus of supposings, serpentine

Sayings that wrap around poetic meaning,

And get cut, by brevity’s churning.

Nearly, or equally, as curious and cunning,

It could have crafted with the momentum

Of monumental token, and held torches,

To reason and being—as it wrote a story

Of reminiscent thieving—a merry crime,

Of veracious, victimless animation.

Actuality could acted as a fantastic

Comparison to a colourless and doleful

Dream that dies and delivers itself to me—

And befriended with paradox and repartee,

It could have laughed heartily at lethargy

And cheerless cretins who balefully

Blow words of discouragement

Mixing venially with dreadful yearning.

It is youthful sight, and unaccounted for

Improvisation, that sets an iconic image

Of fizzling circumvention—as easily

As a misstep or blunder—I wonder—

If I could have reimagined the beginning—

The silent, slippered steps that slid gently.

I err to remember or forget, the in-between

Or distal luck, that has lingered, laced

With karma and serendipitous muck. 

     DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com