What's it Worth?

What's it worth to be safe?

What's the way to be sane?

I can throw myself at the garden

on my hands,

prune the lawn and mow the roses,

but I never understand

how to go

to be free;

in the end I only want to be me.

Winter days here are mine;

still, no bites...what's my line?

I could hurl myself to the bonfire

with all verve,

clear the path and weed the dead leaves,

but I really just don't have the nerve

to be part

of that scene...

is this just some kind of strange dream?

Think I'll walk to the steeple, where the people

are so inquisitive.

I could make it to the corner store and buy

a hoard of derivatives

now.

Which way now...climb or coast?

Will my eggs ever poach?

I could throw myself in the frying pan

for my name;

hit the road or smile hermetically,

but it's really never quite the same:

every time a subtle twist.

I think I'll grab my plot

and simply exist.

Or would that be

a subtle slash at my wrists?