Wilting Poem by John Weber

in such drowsy prospect
with concrete filling my throat,
I wile-away with Narcissus
until belief beckons at ego’s pace
to chase disgrace on wobbly knees,
shaking my Etch-A-Sketch clean.

Yet, messages slice across the loom
to make room for conscious doom
in disharmony penned
across all strata of travel
like a mantra pinning our climb
away from soaring self-fulfillment

revealed only in the pause between
hasty breaths surrendered in chase
as hunter or limber prey
forcing that day we drive
terror away from operatives
determined to snap our branches.