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.
Wormhole
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?
Nothing.
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
