Strain

[LaMont=GSN=]

Strain

A weight born too long
cracks and crumbles the rock
you took for granted
stand still too long
that fine house you built
will fall in a heap
and become your tomb

stirred with the whiskey of despair
the dull ache behind your eyes
that lashes at your eardrums
sullen then grating
patternless, not calm
day or lifetime depends
on how torn is the fabric
of your existence

they used to say
the roar in your ears is the sea
now it seems more like
wails of discontent
blurring together, rushing past
blown along on winds of change

LaMont