“We all have two lives. The second begins when you realize you only have one.”
Boisterous through the reverie he makes
a claim to himself, staking it
then and there, idea saved,
knowing full-well he’ll only rot it later.
The caption on his life is a poorly alphabetized
appendix of frailties, faults & furtive feelings.
And it marquees slowly
across the landscape, always just a
shadow or handshake behind.
But dust and cobwebs are only
allergies and peripheral vision
There is time–
To shake the morning’s foul to fresh
to breathe in
like a ghost reanimated.
This fresh ink will spill from
mind to vein to flesh to finger,
onward from paper to pacing feet
and paved-forward horizons.
There have been far too many
pit-stops of dull sights and mediocre memories;
there are a wonderful amount more
to joyfully pass over.