ten years hence

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.

our voices recede

into static
as does everything

the inevitable resting state
our movement fails to cease
we finally acquiesce to the natural state of things

entropy reigns where before intentions
intended some plan
or hope towards control

/@least

understanding something more
of why&
wherefore will i end
upside down and unknowing

just as ever
before
but feeling vague and unknown
fit
the smaller pieces as disjointed and shamblebodied
but necessarily so
uncertainty was necessity
in the face of false sureties

we jingled and jangled
stumbling, but honestly
and proudly

embracing doubt
as argument against someone else's
conclusions
all we knew
their way wasn't ours
even if we couldn't say
what our's
was

is now
nothing more than static
receding one pixel against a background
of billions more

Here, i am.

I have been, others
more often (than); myself
caught up in the chasing tales
they then, becoming truth
more so than ever I thought
(or wanted)

the running toward
space occupied formerly reserved for never
reaching
goals, transmuted to if--then
contingencies

nearly feeling
and not having
what alternative when process becomes
an end

(maybe) this is good;
fear shakes me
rattles loose that old
and alive
shamblebodied && word dancing
self, from another long
slumber