Theirs
too much convolutions like layers
of threads and interfering light
don't know. I can't pinpoint. Which is which from whom is whom?
too many to hold. Myriad memories.
I cannot grasp what is what.
When is when. Why.
too many bombardments. Less and lesser close-ups.
Woos delayed. Mass growing under the skin.
nothing touched. Distance dissolving. Time melting.
It is better this way. We like it anyway.
It is theirs.We just watch. We understand nothing.
The meteors do what they deserve. They just pass away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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