a short poem on time, because time is running out


when will we run out of beginnings.
the past is ruptured by the present
is encroached upon by the future,
and i can’t tell you who i think i am
supposed to ought to be from one minute
to the next. but we know what the future
holds, we are the seers of all projected
hope, which is to say, none. and the past
is like ether over the mouth. and the
present is a wound that never closes.
and we are all dying, dying, in eternity.

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