Connor Mac Writing

The mirage of the green grass

Taints the hard to grasp scent

Of sitting down with the wise

Wiry shepherd, wanting ending

Forgetting everything, knowing nothing

Just the patch of dirt you currently

Reside on, like an uncalculated destiny

The culmination of your life’s work

Amounting to nothing but pride

Right before your widest of blue eyes

 

For the shepherd knows of ever flowing

Evergreens rolling down endlessly kissed

Golden in the sun hills, the evaporating mirage

He’s imagined it, smelt it, taste it

Buried his weary head in its warm

Escaping embrace

 

Yet he will continue to sit on his uneven

Rock, resting on his dusty patch

Shaded with the dead tree’s lines of darkness

Flickering across his fierce and firm face

With a good and true few thoughts, worries

Circling, soaring with the vultures overhead

 

For he knows the wicked wishing well of desire

Won’t get him any closer, the ugly mirage

Creepily hanging with the unused puppets

Dangling in a delirious manner of carrots

Behind the always alluring one more hill

 

See, the shepherd has learnt to subdue

The feverish questioning mind

Idling his dreams in check of time

With the mirage over yonder

And his feet kicking the dusty ground

His big and little toes playing, around