Many tiny surfaces, making it hard to stay aware.
Life after life crashed here, leaving all but identical debris,
shards, except dull, from being walked on so long;
Or maybe that is just what my one eye chooses to see;
while a simple tune begets its complicated song.
Where is this line you think to get your new start at?
How far is it from one that you first scraped in the grime?
Will it depict a far ahead point not yet charted,
or only a reminder that you likely will not have time?
If all that can be left behind already seems to by now has been,
what is still to come, do you think you know?
What if it is colder, or even duller than what you are living?
You get the where, the when, but seldomly the how,
by then the why, way too late, begins to show.
I drag out the motherless child with his excuse for everything,
coldness penetrates inside the spirit wall to foster malingering.
When the unkindness of merely being alive abates,
each much decide how far to travel, what is useful to bring.
Where, in amongst all the noise, is a melody that needs singing?
Am I writing only because I am so distressed?
Behind some need still not confessed?
Do I embellish what pain I do endure?
Are none of you certain, is no one here sure?