I cannot say tomorrow
is the same as today
but neither can I pinpoint its difference.
So when did I begin to marvel
at the strange grooves of circumstance,
the cast of shadow and of light
cloaking and baring my face
changing the image of me?
I have let go of the warm clasp
of a familiar hand,
rubbing my current two together,
matured to the age of stiff coldness
chapped with the consistency of my fear.
Author notes
I don't remember what this is about. I think it might be a bunch of nonsense.
The last line was added months later. After the original meaning of the poem was lost.
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