Monday, April 14, 2008

To Use (Late 2003)

Still no time to write between work an rehearsals. Here is another about which I know very little. It was during this period that I would quickly write them on scraps of paper and then come upon them later with no context. And yet they still mean so much to me because the person that wrote them is still inside.

To Use

So trite.
Writing love poems at my age.
And yet maybe I am not so old
that I can no longer taste that which every life longs for.

How long?
Can time be measured at all?
Is there no way to count the miles and miles
of road that I have traveled from the destination I once sought?

A thief.
It invades my dreams.
It robs me of the forgetfulness
of long forgotten memories that I have never shared.

1 comment:

M. Morris Gaman said...

speed poetry isn't so different from scraps of thoughts on napkins. that is what i would always say if ever always I'd have to say such a thing.