and so little
progress has been made
but is no more than
tail chasing
a sickness unto
what ought and what
is
or was
or will be
ten years and still
late night listening
and hiding from the
outside
it's so noisy
without them
holding alight
this is what I am
have done
have become
so tired
of twirling the maybetruths
between the gaps we tumble
and I worry
I'll be forgotten
10, thirty, 50 years
hence
and you
there reading will know
the spirit bows
but never completely breaks
as neither does the body
this reality ever become
an ought.
