Life as the architect of my own undoing (a poem)

I’m in the middle of an editing job, so I was running short of inspiration today. Here is today’s lone poem to emerge from my pen:

Sure I know where I came from
but that doesn’t matter much
I don’t know where I’m going
even though I’m pointed in the direction

It’s hard to know when the gear might catch
and the car finally start to move

Some folks portray time as a beating drum
but that doesn’t matter much
It seems that nothing worth knowing
makes its way into the collection

Some days the key breaks off in the latch
and there’s nothing you can prove

I can keep scratching for crumbs
but that doesn’t matter much
if I’m the architect of my own undoing
or whatever you call this condition

some kind of rough patch
with the needle skipping across the groove

(6 June 2016)