Serenity
Serenity,
Serenity, serenity,
Beautiful serenity.
Can't see the serenity?
Taste it, see it,
Taste it, see it,
Taste it, see it,
Feel it.
Serenity, one word, serenity.
When you're pushing through a bush of spikes,
And they are jabbing and stabbing,
And sticking in your socks.
And suddenly you're on a cliff face with a view.
Serenity.
When you're standing in a rainforest gully,
And the leeches don't seem to be hungry.
Serenity.
When you've taken the last bit of a Salada,
With peanut butter, Nutella, honey, Spam and cucumber.
Serenity.
Breakfast by a babbling, bubbling, bashful, beautiful, baroque,
Bagpipe-playing, burgundy, blue brook.
Serenity.
Dry socks.
Serenity.
That feeling you get when you've had your dinner,
Two other peoples dinner,
Desert and now you're sitting down with a cup of tea,
With the knowledge that you'll soon be in a sleeping bag,
On an only mildly rocky surface,
With mosquitos only as big as your little pinkie nail,
Which is a fairly flexible definition,
Depending on your pinkie size,
Which I suppose goes back to your genes/jeans,
Whether your parents dressed you in Levis or the cheap K-Mart brand,
With leeches that seem to be afraid of groundsheets,
Ants that are only strong enough to carry off a small child,
Cicadas that you sort of get used too after a while,
And a fire that only slightly singed your socks.
Ahh Serenity.
Serenity.
Serenity.
The choice of a new generation of asthmatic, cardigan-wearing, parachuting, bowlegged, fire-eating hamsters, the end.
- by Jon Bracht (Copyright © 2001)
