a pebble/an arrow

it's a pebble, sitting on a post, stuck in the sand
a small wind feels cool on it's shell and is welcomed on a sweltering day
it's the briskness, though, that throws it from its hold
back to the piles and miles of meaningless little pebbles
soon to be sand, walked and polluted, rarely polished too clean

so blow with ease, and fair your audience
keep close to mind that each walks a blind path, unaccustomed to sameness and
expectedness

we'll take the arrows of the world, send them forth
watch them wiggle in that soft breeze, switch hard left or right
but left if it's mine
we won't see them land,
but it will give us more solace than the bullseye
the arrow would never choose the bullseye
no more than it would choose the suit and tie
and grey/brown cubicle too close for contemplation

when the game is played by the frequency of sound,
there is no ending, nor beginning.
when notes are pounded until racuous blazes of bass come filing out in no particular order,
when flips are attempted at too short a height to land on the resting note,
when shouting of songs sounds less like singing and more like being
that's when you'll find no point
no dot on a line
no click of the timecard punch

and it's all for the better
for a good piece of this world

to my brother, drew, who danced his life to the sound of nobody's song but his own -
rest in peace.