It's not as if
I read fortunes
Or understand the nature
Of being True.
Time is falling -
That's not my fault -
No space for big steps,
There's only enough room
For breathing.
Grasping at feathers,
Fathers and mothers,
Experience flies
In the face of Time.
I might turn to prayer
Or words to chant,
And talk to the trees and birds -
There are solutions there.
But they are busier than I,
And God is, too -
My hope is smothered
By an onslaught of sound.
And in my mouth
I hold only unformulated thoughts -
Some garbled mix of hidden wants
The desires of an unformed creature.
The birds seem True.
Nature is wild with Truth.
And I watch as if in the shadow of a cinema,
Holding onto my seat, afraid to miss out
On the telling part.
I move forward, or at least in place -
Stepping as if with new feet
Made of fresh and sticky clay
I will make the forward motions.
I refuse to march to the pace of Time,
And my rhythm shows this fault.
I fall out of step with what might be called
My fellow travelers.
