Sunday, October 06, 2013

The Mag 189

Photo credit crilleb50
The ticking-
the constant ever after ticking.
I sit for this
I sit for that
it weighs one the mind
it bends at the heart
of it all, I see no reason
I hear no rhyme.
I do not cherish this passage
of time-
after which I know nothing of.
The grass it grows
and flowers and blooms
and goes to seed-
My knees ache
all the while I ruminate;
then conjugate things
of despair-
things I remember
that brought me here-
those that were painful
and some that were dear.
this ticking continues
I suppose that is good-
it's all quite foggy now
like I knew would.  
Michael A. Wells

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