Do not cross that creaky log. I walked it once before. Though Everglades provide much shade along that yonder shore, do not cross that creaky log. I walked it once before.

     The crocodiles wink and smile, beneath that creaky log; and, vultures loom within that thick musty, rancid smog. On yonder shore, some birds do sing, and cluck and click their dream, but most repeat the others’ swing, and many never gleam.

     Do not cross that creaky log. You will lose everything. Your friends and family drift like fog, or wash out with the spring. Do not cross that creaky log. You will lose everything. 

     Fame and fortune pave some floor, but leave your heart inshore; and, emptiness and loneliness will leave you wanting more. The parasites will drain you dry and take the tears you cry. The fungi eat your heart alive; so, lonesome you will die.

     Do not cross that creaky log. It’s only for the best, who live within their art and shine to put their heart at rest. If parasites and rancid smog are worth the pain you spew. If your art is your life to you,... and you can breathe the putrid bog,... then cross that creaky log.


[Vertical Version]

Do not cross that creaky log.

I walked it once before. 

Though Everglades provide much shade

along that yonder shore, 

do not cross that creaky log.

I walked it once before.

 

The crocodiles wink and smile,

beneath that creaky log;

and, vultures loom within that thick

musty, rancid smog.

On yonder shore, some birds do sing,

and cluck and click their dream,

but most repeat the others’ swing,

and many never gleam.

 

Do not cross that creaky log.

You will lose everything.

Your friends and family drift like fog,

or wash out with the spring.

Do not cross that creaky log.

You will lose everything. 

 

Fame and fortune pave some floor,

but leave your heart inshore;

and, emptiness and loneliness

will leave you wanting more.

The parasites will drain you dry

and take the tears you cry.

The fungi eat your heart alive;

so, lonesome you will die.

 

Do not cross that creaky log.

It’s only for the best,

who live within their art and shine

to put their heart at rest.

If parasites and rancid smog

are worth the pain you spew.

If your art is your life to you,...

and you can breathe the putrid bog,...

then cross that creaky log.

 

Gisèle Elisse Magnin






 

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