Morning comes on time,
without fail,
and your heart can pound you into unconsciousness or oblivion.
There is no cure for the chronic
disease of time,
when no one can answer the simple questions.
Two strangers who have known each other for years introduce,
but who can say just how they are?
They tell each other that every day brings something else
of a new nature, a new purpose,
and you can acknowledge this
but you can never know it.
Hands seem unstoppable as they turn
and I reach to them repeatedly,
I cry at their getting away,
I weep in their time signature,
their harmonic melodies,
their minor chords.
But what do I know?
I am young,
I am a kid,
I could ramble for hours about morals and happiness and god,
and still know nothing of what has just been said.
I could see my own reflection,
mistake it for the future,
and curl up on my bed like a fetus
and shake until I am convinced
that future time is far away,
at a safe distance,
in no way capable of touching my young body
and my young mind
and my twisted heart.
And when I get up from my root position,
I can introduce myself and ask, "how are you?"
once again, with no idea what kind of answer that requires.