Nothing of Something
By Terry Scott Niebeling
A lack luster flicker of a star sends a shining message from afar; judgement on distant affairs, to which few care, particularly the provocateur.
Not knowing what he compares to reality, most likely steeped conversation and argument in fallacy.
But he won’t mention that.
But who is counting? Even a 3 year old can- 1, 2, 3, etc.
Look above, seeing is proof.
He reads it, it is then truth.
We pass it on as lack of judgement, no one budges.
Stand in line wait your turn, the frustrated real nudges…
Some years in the sky; he has seen it all, his ideas fly.
He has no fall or fault in his suspended reality, I wonder what he actually does?
He couldn’t be who he was.
Even if he tried less.
Quick to judge and then later realize, quick to impress his peers with small fries.
Others look with 20/20 eyes.
He judges the clouds not in his skies, and the inhabitants of mountain tops aloft, yet he has not entered into anything other than the space he inhabits.
No grip to grasp at. Gripe to grabble at your babble.
He has not wore the crown described, or the leather boots assumed, not drank the liquid consumed by all the fools. By accounts on experience he has nothing to prove, he remains in same old shoes.
Cold spoon to bruise, attempted healing remedy, a bandaid.
He plays the blues, as we read his words we snore to snooze. Last battle, one more not to lose.
Choice words, time to choose.
But that is just presumed, I have faith in the hypocrite, I have faith in the fan. ;)
Despise me, go make a bandstand.
Rally some of the same brand, how grand.
Really, you are simple.
But its been done.
His orbit is morbid and ideas remain contorted to his very whim. Time stands still, he stares harder; he explains a cake before a taste, he knows a lager before the bother of a swill. Much skill to kill, apparently.
We have yet to see.
Come make us thrilled.
Take your childish poems back to the retirement home, or preschool, you can’t avoid what we do, your words are see-through. Be cool, sometimes we get frustrated too.
I sit on top, as stated, watching you struggle from the bottom.
You said it, they said You Got Him.
A certain blow from a made-up foe, damaged he; struck to calamity, clubs came down upon him, what a catastrophe.
But who gives a fuck anyway?
A new situation to fill an empty void of lost patients, he tries to fill a broken cup; years of complacence, years of disgraces. A common place vagrant searching for famous placement.
Don’t cut your face to satisfy your thirst.
How wise are we?
This is just an assumed assessment, though, I could careless about your time present.
My perception is my perception.
This star must trust that he will inevitably combust, a few readers, or alone, with only judgement and a dark space to call home, like the rest of us.
No one is above the rest.
Everyone dies by themselves, he thinks; where you come from is where you will go.
All others can see what he’s done, see who he was, and call it naught for a buzz, but for a simple suggestion, a shrug. How smug?
And he thought he was judging a mere child.
Maybe, but understand all children can smile.
When into question he frolics, he does not understand what he reads; therefore only heeds to a need to be not astounded and still counted.
At that instance exacting an answer, a whimper, a hope, a word transfer.
A star founded years after has stolen his knowledge and laughter in less than a fortnight.
Even if he were surrounded he couldn’t have acknowledged that he found it, some stars are just lightyears away. The rest of your life starts today, so go prosper.
But black holes still suck.
Don’t believe everything you read, and thanks for reading. ;)