Headmaster ritual

I’m nowhere you can’t be or haven’t been.

The settings and scenes don’t change much.

You just keep getting pestered by the things that show the light.

Like a friendly, flirting flick on the ear, the bothersome lad suggests you look closer in the most playful of ways.

An awkwardly oversized hawk stumbles drunkenly from a nursery manufactured tree.

The craters of the moon say circle, circle, circle as if that’s all you’ve ever been doing.

The pattern is sometimes a violin, sometimes the leaf blower, sometimes the random whoosh of crows wings.

Attention to the smallness.

There’s a conversation that’s not in words.

You do it, but then the educated part of your self unravels it with mis-education, and you’re a silly human again.

An outcast among the natural animals, you convince yourself there’s something going on that’s not.

You boast at your cleverness, setting goals in a two-personality dialogue.

A headmaster buying cheap trophies and handing them over to the self.

Progress toward nowhere.