Born on a Monday night, died on a Wednesday morn.
Reincarnated with every breath, each release,
Every transition a person can make at warp speed.
Done once, twice – fine for a while, but then
A third, fourth, fifth – accelerating, spinning
Sixth, seventh time – to realize it’s only the start
Of this cyclical pattern of self-resurrection.
Met on a Friday night. Dined on a Saturday.
Roses ensued, as did wine and pet name for me.
Conversations swirl about in non-sequitor interests.
My heart overflowing with the sea, lips turned from the river.
Your eyes covered from the sting of the coming eclipse.
We flutter like locusts on a field of ourselves,
Doing more harm with our song than hanging silence.
Fell in a Tuesday room. Left in a Thursday box.
Wrapped hastily to give to any begging hand
But then stop and wait, burning time like a match
Blow and it’s gone that quickly. It weighs down
After a while on these limbs, these bones, this heart
Only to discover a force within to spark light
To engulf this box, this room, this frame, this clock.
Born in a fever’s grip. Died when my hands stole its breath
Fought for sophomoric gambles, like my wager first time around
All for survival to see if the late show is better,
Yet Darwin never vouched for his neighbor’s estate.
It’s all a game to test one’s will and strength.
Go over the bridge, slide under the poles and plunge
Deep into the streams that only empty in the sea.
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