Saturday, November 7, 2009

Every Morning

(Untitled, Nocturne, 2009)

In a time not too far from now there was something in the place of a missing chair, a cabinet to the left, and in my chest. I called it by name, and now that name is lost to me. In my hands are the same wrinkles that I had when I was a boy; my future is the same, my hands are just bigger now.
In the wake of a year, the parallel of the seasons I feel empty. I shall burrow in my gut, feed from the flesh, and become one again. Yes, alone again.

Time has told me with so many words, how meaningful can be meaningless like a shell or skin of an orange, missing it's fruitfulness. Of longing of things passed, and of wanting of things to come; patience is a blessing I call the impossible. Like dreams upon waking, I drift away in sunlight, and I call to the day speaking of the milky-way. Like stars, like the moon, afloat in the darkest of seas, swallowed whole, and alive still to shine through.

Maybe another day as I drift to sleep, of possibilities, of nameless strangers, and for chance to play. I'll call you Tomorrow.

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