These are the Days
Blank white dull page,
Staring indicatively at me every day.
Time is like a wasp banging against a window,
Like an indecisive politician who doesn’t know what to say.
These are the days when there are more grasshoppers than policemen,
When the sea is calm and still,
And when everything and almost everyone can be questioned
And brought up to some kind of debate.
Even now, I can feel the tectonic plates of progress and discovery
Moving right under my feet.
I can feel the wind whipping around my hair,
And the monotonous slow pace of a python snake.
Sometimes I sense the sudden urge
to shake the snake a bit,
to show it that it’s not
a slave to it’s little existence.
And frankly, it appears in the most mysterious of places.