Habitual Ritual

Habitual Ritual

Can’t see too much from the inside,

outside of the music inside my head.

Was I running away from myself only to find

I’m up against, at last, an endless wall of men?

From the day I was born I was told what to think.

Strange, now that I’m older I can see

from the top down that the bottom is a sink

into which everything I do, say, or think disappears.

But, this is next to impossible to hear

when you’ve got nowhere to hide, 

everything to lose

and the end could be looming quite near.

Holy Moley, I can’t get the idea out of my head

that sooner or later, no matter what I think, say, or do,

I’m gonna be really, finally, unequivocally dead.

Oh, the wonder of it all, the wonder of the small.

I can’t remember the beginning, and won’t remember the end.

Life’s not a road that goes anywhere but in a circle.

So, I’m riding all the colors, notes, smells and flavors

like a jockey on a horse finally coming round the bend.

Billy Radd
Asheville