Imbalanced Beam (A Fulcrum's Lean) Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Movement
is life's natural state
therefore stagnation is its end
this known
played out continually throughout
the illusion of all time
to refuse this fact
is not unlike an ignoble bard
out pissing into the wind
visually then this imagined
shape pulls forth of mind
in conscious stunned
how grim the cold cloaked reaper's grin
turns out the joke
and sets one's life on end
below it sets and not above;
for everyone comes alone in time
to this very sway...
unfettered and under life's toad stool
fodder for earth's meek;
at lack for light of day
upon hoof you rise
and view this scene surreal or worse,
of which you do not know
direction's points lay unseen
beyond horizon's rise as stood
on and centered down upon
you find yourself staged to fall
when living's imbalanced beam
on fulcrum's point does lean...
Ah, the fear that brings such sweat
at last a sign that you are still alive
tensions shift from mind to legs
life's shoulder dips, eye blinks,
what surprise!
unknown what lays beyond one's view
the point, however mute
begs an unconscious mise;
today slips freedom's only gun
as you squat and lean
to keep the ride concise
realization mimics
irreality's twisted gleam
a life, you, astride
the providential beam
above the fogs of fiction's fact
awhirl on this unthinkable precipice
an attempt in standing tall
induces your cruel fall;
in violence forward lean
exhale and take a backwards roll
attempt to stop the toiling whirl
and right the tilting beam...
In and out each day descends
into the potential that this trial foretells
upon your breast the shadow wanes
as, to right or left, these thoughts you swoon
lone centralist of compassion's trends
at tightened waist you bend
head down now, eyes focused in
to the stepped position that legacy
of an unconscious thought that brought
you to here on edge of cliff and not alone
as all of the world so follows swift
imagine imagination's twists
as that load so crawls aboard
from horizon's mists stacked end to end
all of life on earth is packed
upon the fulcrum's single point
oh ouch! it's point impacts the flesh
as in the mists of time
it pierces beam and sole...
the arising thought to flee
or stay and fight
which to attempt,
save face for all or fall
into a gapping whole
looking up then
from this steaming fray
seems best as now
all of US stand blind
weight and mass
approach crisis critical
your next move or breath
may cause your will to crack
alas! what horror,
that itching sound of thought's amiss
you, remain rigidly stuck
in the mess
at the center of life for all
therein what remains of self
the speck which is antithesis
to the visualized
and weakened focal point
the tip of it upholds this world
as to yours,
what exactly does it do pray tell...
sounds gurgle from the unspoken guests
to speak and answer on this topic's bane
any and all relationships
bourne not of freedom but of
necessity in one's times of need
without a blessing
one from above or from family
two tied together
without a future's thought
eyes lit, if just for that moment
on chance the nation's love will last…

(A work in progress) to be continued...