face covered in mud

seen more seas
digested exotic greens
spices linger on the left front portion of their tongue
wisps in C# reverberate in the pockets of their ears
yet is it what they want to hear?

upon reflection
of boats, carrots, stones, tennis, ice cream, tears, and heart break
the old man reached a breach in his conclusions
but decided to think around it
rather than through it

of their reflections I will reflect no longer
of their joys I refuse to envy
in listening to their songs I've lost my own
that's why I don't read Thoreau
to be a ghost of his piano playing disc throwing car washing prose

of these greens i see
i leaf them to be let
fall into the bushes forty feet down
spewed up out of brown liquid
twirling
set down
smiling
face covered in mud