Half Of October
And where it went, I refuse to accept.
Probably because what went with time, I know I cannot retrieve, exactly as time.
Or I cannot hurry whatever I assume, pray will still return.
*
Given our changes are still us, where are those who've changed with
us?, through us?
*
Amazing how time passes swiftly along with waiting. And hurt does not
hurt enough.
Yet almost crazily I obsess with beginnings and endings, like my
sanity relies solely as to where I place my self in the spectrum.
*
What I give may be mine--what of those I'm not willing to let go of?
The giving game is fun only when someone's needing.
*
Half of October is spent in doubting and hanging on to whatever's left
to hold on to: dreams, deceit; what's left of good intentions;
figuring the extent of things I could do and the extent of what I
could forgive, thus accept.
I measure my days with how much I manage to live without: messages
and a plea for a call, the desire to send messages and call.
Probably because what went with time, I know I cannot retrieve, exactly as time.
Or I cannot hurry whatever I assume, pray will still return.
*
Given our changes are still us, where are those who've changed with
us?, through us?
*
Amazing how time passes swiftly along with waiting. And hurt does not
hurt enough.
Yet almost crazily I obsess with beginnings and endings, like my
sanity relies solely as to where I place my self in the spectrum.
*
What I give may be mine--what of those I'm not willing to let go of?
The giving game is fun only when someone's needing.
*
Half of October is spent in doubting and hanging on to whatever's left
to hold on to: dreams, deceit; what's left of good intentions;
figuring the extent of things I could do and the extent of what I
could forgive, thus accept.
I measure my days with how much I manage to live without: messages
and a plea for a call, the desire to send messages and call.