The Value of Reinventing the Wheel
By Ernest Williamson III

in the weighted hours
alone
in solemn care
with the vaporous stems of cold gray leaves
dead but vibrant
like a moss breathing
along the musk of aged bark
I've contained a breath
with mallet and symbol
striking away
in the monotone of flaccid existence
though I've travailed in the winter now
my ways have pounced along
the cerebral branches
of more than Grandma's Oaks
I've grown backwards in a fulsome world
staging innocence with greed for position
though position is merely a crystal ball
wading in anger
in unison
with the brunt of nihilistic
possibilities
made real