The Jack-of-all-cliches

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When you are struggling to find a new metaphor out there.

And the morning comes on its own,
no condition asked or conceded
without volition,
and the birds chirp their recognition of the ages old event.

So I rise, coaxed from sub consciousness by processes
better not understood to meet the tasks for which
I did not ask,
and my ritual self is readied with soap and coffee.

And I can smell the hydrocarbon plumes
mixing with Hyacinth and Thyme
there is no design
just the roar of the rubber on the road.

But I have always been on the wondering
of this or that or where or when
even today
as the stray dogs bark their unease to me.

And there is no wonderful when
stripped of leaves and color
this winter finds
no way to whistle the wind.

Then when every season comes
mixing its complexity with the stability of
our orbit
we are left with the jack-of-all-clichés.

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