And as we are shuffling, waiting in line

birds sit and watch from evergreen branches.

The mystery rises, twisting, revealing our faces

tired from the digging with tools of our making

just to stand in the queue, biding our time.

Even on holiday, following the line

for small worlds, or out of this universe thrills,

the heat from the pavement blows into the shade

and we await our turn at willful escaping.

Something has bound us in place in this time.

Staving a cadence with melody lines;

whistling a tune with hopes of inception,

I choose the notes that fall out on the page.

Writing as though I have skill for creating

a world that exists for our meeting in time.

But now in a bulwark, some hold the line

awaiting a plane of a choice, to unfold.

Dots creep and crawl from out of the trenches

enveloping ones who can’t hear the ground breaking

and those who are wicked die time after time.