The Mag 189

 

Photo credit crilleb50

 

 

RUMINATION

 

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

 

 

 

 The Mag