Here’s something I wrote in the waning of winter.
What are the options
When it’s too late for beginnings?
The ghost of time is all you’ve got
Because now you’re down and out,
In your own little mood,
You think you’ll survive on the
Bones of everything else you’ve done
Without the afterthought that
It’s easier to lose than to gain in a world
Where you dig a home in the sand
But it gets kicked in around you.
What we feel matters less than matter.
“What a waste of four years”
Is all you hear from the
Who looks down at you
Over their uneven gold-rimmed
Maybe it’s time to leave
The cotton-ball womb
Says the independent
But that’s not me.
Not me yet.
I wish it was me and I show this by
Going out with people like Clark
Looking to turn bagged-up trees
In front of the homely aliens;
So far from a real home.
They are a micro society
That disregards the need for art.
A heterotopia that marginalized
After we develop a fear of
When we are broken,
We see ourselves
It was only a matter
Before we broke.
We are very small,
They don’t make us any more.