Fred Aiken Writing

when I come home in the evening and look up at the sky with an unkempt mind,
I see a million things in splendid confusion, and with activity of infinite company

the pipe’s glad whistle towards morning spreads with alert;
shrill noises in my ears sound the alarm, feed the growing mollusk
burrowing into tangled veins splayed across an ocean of fear

mocking-
birds that nature incites to sing are saying and well-away, but make sure not to stay all day!;
and it startles me with their groveling cries

the day is very much awake when I lament that it must have a night-brother at all;
but obsidian shadows follow me as death lurking in the creeping footnotes that I never read,
as if its time shone only as a counterfeit light on a mirage to be resisted

deliver me from constant distraction!

deliver me from constant unknown!