stitched upon the soil 

There are billions & billions & trillions

of stars

(trust me; I know,

this is true).

Do not stitch your star on thar’s.

No stars on thar’s.

No stars on thar’s.

Stitch yar’s to a thimble of soil

to be nimble,

and oiled, and dig.

You can’t rely, for plans

will foil, and things

shall rumble underneath.

You must reform yourself

within, for

things do only crumble down.

Down in the soil is where I

shall be

when the frequencies twist

into turmoil.

Static on the radio-band

is the worst sound

(in the world)

And if, forbid, you hitch

your star

to another star

they’ll burn and boil.

But down

in the soil, it is temperate

and moderate…

Well, worst-case-scenario:

your blood is not royal;

you’ll crackle and crumble

(not actually tumble),

where things go in & things come out better

than they were before.

Unless they lie to rot and spoil

(for all their toil to live).

I guess it isn’t up to me–

or anyone, for that matter.

We’re just a gigantic sprinkle

or smatter of chutes and ladders.

I will try

to climb the ladder

to dive into the trees

and scry above the treelines

to see what is stitched upon the sky.

But to get back up,

one must start off


in the soil

w/ the plants and the animals.

Rise softly into sunshine.



copyright: C. Ward 2017 

– crickle-bot publishing


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