These days, nights

      flights

        into another world

we cling to our truth

though sporadic,

      nomadic,



compass points directing

north, south, in my

      mouth the earth

she breathes/seethes

this hatred wasted,

fear tasted and



        forgotten



tapping (tap/tap/tap)

at the edge of recollection:

affection released by 

the hands



        of time (sands

      in our hourglass) -



failing,

    and at last

      from the past...we are 



             re-

cast.

09/14/2004

Posted on 09/14/2004
Copyright © 2024 Karen Michelle