conquistador

In his search for inspiration, he turned each stone a thousand times,
he turned to gales that blew by oceans, tried to rid to world of crimes,
but noble quests, you’ll often find, will claim the soul of he who ventures,
and leaves one old and cold and lonely, with just Alzheimer’s and his dentures.
when he reflected on his vices, shot the shit and cut the trim,
he peered inside and then discovered that the anachronism was him.
Had he not walked that pavement, had he not said those words,
Had he not scarred that tissue, shared a view with lonesome birds,
Then our feeble hearts and heavy heads would spin a brighter hue,
They’d still be wedding bells and oyster shells but just no me and you.
So tonight I am Neftali, and those saddest lines are mine,
And yet we pick out sheets for cousins and choose eateries to dine,
we talk to strangers with conviction, receive our dues for what we give,
We exist from days to eons, when do we ever live?
Tonight, the flaming question was the stutter into verse.
Was the broaching of this issue that I'm sure has made it worse,
But then the quest for inspiration, keeps me pacing moonlit pavements,
So excuse the impropriety of these verses, the fickleness of these statements.

Noon May 10.