the days drip by
at some distance
distances
distancing
doling out their separate continuities
pooling into patterns, welling up
strange familiar currents
ripples
depths and calms
dreamlike surreal
a drip at a time
wearing new grooves into resistant stone
eroding the ground under my feet
layering ugly limescale like a scar
what will i do?
feeble fickle attention snags briefly on some drifting interest
swirls and eddies
caught between extremes of drought and drowning
out of my depth
what do these drips and drabs of time have to do with me?
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loss sometimes demands to be recognised wallowed bathed submerged in indulged Felt A friend of a friend described it as the "dark luxur... -
not so lost for words these days pouring spewing out in jumbles inspiration of desperation I was not so wordy before nor ever so deeply sile...
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We'd known it was the last time though no one said this task you'd set upon with borrowed help in borrowed hours and days determined...
1 comment:
"what will I do?"
Do nothing. Not now. Not yet.
Take time just to be. xxxx
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