There’s less and less of me as time goes by
With each moon, a little less remains
For every dimension I grow a fraction
I feel I’m shrinking in three
…
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There’s less and less of me as time goes by
With each moon, a little less remains
For every dimension I grow a fraction
I feel I’m shrinking in three
…
How about
Instead of throwing up our hands
Saying “Nothing matters”
We instead say
“Everything matters”
I ask myself again:
Why shouldn’t the way I live matter to me?
…
Just make it to next year. That part’s easy, right? I’m almost there! Please let me stay a little longer. Maybe I’ll find what I need. Just give me a little more time.
Eternity is a long time. Please stop rushing me. Eternity is patient. It can wait a few more months for me. It can wait a little longer. It can wait. It can wait. It can wait a little longer. I can wait a little longer. I can wait. I can wait. I can wait.
Surroundings tilted
Questioning reality
Deserving nothing
She’s dizzy, weak
She’s heavily wounded
Yet miraculously she stands
On shaking legs
Spitting bitter iron
Coughing, dazed, stumbling
With broken bones
Into arms of those who came
To her when she needed them most
The wet sand that cushioned her
When she fell so far
The sun that hid from her
In the cobblestone square
The moon that couldn’t find her
Sitting at her warm table
The snow that didn’t touch her
But saw her through that window
And the friend who could read her
Who could hear and see right through her
May be the only ones who really
Know her stories
Maybe that’s enough
After all, as this new day ends
She’s still standing
December 5, 2024
12:15 a.m.
A Daydream Aggressive
A Daydream Decisive
A Daydream Gently Ending
Why do I write myself out of my own story
In my daily mind and in my work?
Things have changed
My melancholic trials
Are not quite as they were
They feel calmer somehow
Still reaching down, down, down
But closer to frozen
Closer to still
…
She sits at a huge dining table
That was crafted amateurly
But with great care, in rich mahogany
Low warm lighting surrounds her
Stars twinkle through the windows
Her arms across her chest, she holds herself
Staring at an item on the table
Pondering
She remembers that she hates the smell of metal…
Those who plan their own demise can choose exactly how long to grieve their own end before they go.
In the centre of some distant stone village
She sits cross-legged in the cobblestone square…