Scott: Crit

Sometimes the world gives me

a garland of fears,

a skin-vexing hair shirt,

a bucket of tears.

Sometimes it allows me

ineffable cheer,

the beauty of heavens,

the music of spheres.

Life folds itself ‘round me

in earth-colored gear;

it judges, it praises,

it muddies my clear

with randomly conjured

uncomfortable it

that dares me to conquer

then cows me to quit,

with menacing shadows

that jump at my feet

and drag me through hollows

for dust in the wind.

‘Hey! You awake?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just checking.’

‘Quit wasting time.’ 

‘Poet!’