is a fast clock
more alive than one
that runs slow ..
or does it just seem
that way, while
we are busy passing ..
still, when we
are young, we all joke
about that
sore point of beauty ..
where the bud
has become bruised
and beyond,
a point of full bloom ..
the very same
point, when it is no
longer perfect,
much like fresh milk,
which has
thus become tainted
or curdled
and our blue veins
all ballooned ..
indeed, that’s when it
first struck me,
how the whole of my
life is somehow
determined by time
and ruled by a
series of back on back
tiny moments ..
those which somehow
serve to inform
my sense of direction
and helped me
to arrive at my latest
and boldest of
conclusions that life is
a solitary game
and I’m now prepared
to confess, I don’t
know any of the rules ..
and I cannot
seem to find the right
words to fill this
partially completed page ..