Wormhole ©2015 by Marc Alexander Valle

A poem that I wrote almost 10 years ago. Another piece that I do not care to publish since it’s not on par with my current work.


Sometimes you have to call a day ‘a day’

before the day

is through.

Feelings of uselessness follow everything we do.

Yes, there are days

when even dogs get stressed.

I guess there are days

when even God can care less.

But my plight

is not one of morality.

It’s the sight

of my own mortality.

The fight

to control reality.

What’s right

when the heart knows no formality?

Because time is an usher

leading us to its exit.

And, oh, how I wonder

why must I stand next to it.

So what should I do when ‘to do’

is a mask to what’s new?

And what should I think when ‘to think’

will just last through a blink?

And how should I feel when ‘to feel’

is the last of what’s real?

And what can I be when ‘to be’

just gets passed by what’s seen?


And that would make it easy.

But then I’d be fronting

when something better needs me.

Cause movement moves

at its own pace.

And all you have to chose

is how to wait.

But guess at a certain age

you see that only ‘x’

amount of stuff will ever occur.

So you flip the page

and do your best

at every turn.

So, yes, the future is our harshest critic.

The rest turn to narcissist at the sight of what they’re living with.

So what I’m saying

is to please just hold on.

No way of taking

what we leave when we’re gone.

For the wormhole is wide

as it whines all its ‘whys’

as it’s wise as a rhyme

as it whips all in white

as it winds throughout time

as it eats you alive

as it ekes and it grinds

as it beats in your mind.

Life is sweet when you’re blind.

Cause ‘How?’,

is just a lie that’s denied.

So thank Tao,

for this cry deep inside

to fight the word ‘my’,

and never frown,

because the dark night always fades into the blue sky.

by Marc Alexander Valle ©2015

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