Dawn

I am in revolution country,
where there is no passport save
the baggage on your shoulders
the anger flinging itself against sloth-prisons
The flings hurt,
but even worse, the self-pain
I give up..
shaken from the deep slumber
of disappointed lethargy, I rise,
and sweeping through in a pitch final effort,
as cold skeptics look on,
there are no cheering crowds.
I reach a centum.
I look around, for
there haven't been centums for a while.
the next fall short.
I wonder,
Is it I?
have i really gotten there?
or was it a happy accident?
the centum whet my appetite.
Now, I doubt my own hunger
and my resolve
for all testament
to the past is in fickle forgetful memory,
subject tot the force of will
as amused skeptics and
the once faithful sink in
betrayed trust into anger and disgust
Tired eyes, diverted minds stare listless
as the heart hankers to get back
and restless limbs go after, food, film,
any diversion is fine
any jouissance is fine
any gratification is fine
the heart hankers on and on,
Excuses run out
I am in revolution country
It is time to get up.