What have I to look at? What is there to see,
as all just reflects this me?
So I stop wondering for quite some time,
'cause the puzzle's gone. You see?
I just write when words have time for me
to jot between naps, perhaps.
This way, moons go by so full or not
and I've left nothing behind and no gaps
in no spaces of my life to look at.
No, none at all.
And what is it that time does not want?
Our souls, or something, somewhere similiar?
A ghost of what is to be or just life's shadow
on some forgotten wall of awareness?
I think I know not what to really think to do,
other than repeat all false notions of what should be,
should oughta happen yesterday eve.
I came this way before, just to leave empty-thoughted,
yet most amazed at what I dreamed then,
just to do it again. And again.
What coulda been my name back then,
before time wanted anything?
T2F, 123107
