No Form

The metronome is the thing
the polished wood, the beautiful
cut marks and numbers, its
ticking machine - I can't
imitate:  I am flesh warm
and expiring, each day a
different weather, different
storm.  I can't dance to its
tune with my awkward
gait, my erratic food.
Thoughts dance around me
like capricious children who
won't do what they are told,
they make fun
and delight in torment
and old wounds.  I wind
myself up and let go
but I don't perform.
It is an act of will,
this life, to do well you
have to go beyond
how you feel, how it
has harmed.

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