Otherwise
What should I do when nothing comes to me?
The day a soft pallet, a reflection of
Yesterday,
A mirror of tomorrow with no real
Hope for
Hope?
To freeze in a bed of mirrors has
Become commonplace,
A need to worry and contemplate
Steps toward 'something else.'
And the 'Temptation.'
Ending.
Caveat.
You.
Always a trick of time.
But the movement. Here I am faced with
The task of understanding with no
Notes on the present nor grasp on the past.
The why.
The place.
And you.
Caveat.
Ending.
Nothing comes to me. Hands lie still.
Breath becomes wooden, splintered; bone.
Ears stuff dull and sweet yet depleted.
Legs heavy. Arms evanescent.
Caveat.
Another's world, isolated in an escapist's dream,
And I am (irresponsibly) at the helm.
No one remembers a moment as a memory;
Later, it takes hold and twists
And forgets its embryonic happening.
We do not say, "This will be my past."
Instead, we live it as constant, as
Yesterday and now and tomorrow.
In transcribing our last glance,
We remember this moment as memory.
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