time is a fragile word
betrays its obscurity like a whisper
past and future blend into a dream
that might come true.
life’s a series of physicalities
but how to report myself
on the missing persons list
remains a problem.
it used to be I could look into
a poem, and even when the mirror
rejected me, I’d be lying there
silently in my words, waiting.
one word breaks it
shatters its mysteries like a blind
snaps open to the sun.
If life glides like this
I’ll die of boredom, but
belief insists on continuing
soft, slide into acceptance and
maturity that approaches deathly-slow