Thursday, September 15, 2016



One foot in front of the other;
there's isn't such thing as turning back
it's grey and it's hard to see if you turn your head 'round;
even if you squint, the details are blurry and you can't make out much
and even if you could see it, crystal clear,
like it was right before you, or in your hands,
or wrapped around your waist
or sitting across from you like things do
it wouldn't matter much
because the very things that once were
no longer are;
they've drifted
and the memories are nothing but
limp, boneless fragments
of thoughts and feelings past


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