In the time that is left to me
In the moments I find lifetimes,
In the days I find weeks,
In the moment I am lost.
I can not seem to recall
where I need to go.
I think I can get there all in all.
The months become hours,
the years become moments,
how to gauge this thing called life.
I will not be here tomorrow,
I left yesterday.
I will be here always,
it is not a choice.
There is no time left
to ponder my infinite fate.
age changes perception of time, indeed.
ReplyDeleteFor me, I know what I want to do, but not where. And, at my age, fear holds me back. Which should be the opposite, probably.
I like this poem very much.
I am glad you liked it. These things come to me, haunt me really. Usually I just let them go after days or even weeks of torment. This one was put out of my mind before I had time to lament over it even five minutes. I'll have to read it since you commented. Ha, if there were money in it, I would save them up for retirement.
ReplyDeleteI wonder if I pluck them, if they will come more than once in a great while? Always the questions.
Ah, but I think you play with these too. Is it a disturbance for you or more inspiring or work? Do you seek to be a tool of this muse? I am always curious, more curious than even wrong.
I rarely, if ever, question my poetry. Usually, it wells up from... somewhere... and I try to write it down before it disappears. Sometimes it is written quickly. Sometimes it is pieces gathered and arranged and re-arranged over some weeks.
ReplyDeleteSometimes it is an emotion from right now, sometimes from the past.
It is one of my favorite things to do. I hope it never stops.