I know,… I know,…
So late,… delayed… I seem; so slow,
Delayed to choose,
Delayed to use,
Only Delaying I abuse…
Delayed to do,
To travel through,
& yet Delaying’s all I rue…
& yet Delaying’s all I know…
in this hurried procession of sham
Nothing will stand this rushing time;
from tearing through that Self I am
—uprooting onwards from my own prime,
The clockwork seems to haunt the hours
That flee from me,
repeatingly utter:
“Nothing is really ever ours…”
& I, again, am free…
Yet in the gutter,
I rush to haste;
Through all the waste,
To treasure world and life and time…
I doubt: I may only own this rhyme,…
So late, I chase, & then misplace…
of things I should have deemed as mine,
& as I try to reach so near, I hear,
I’ve lost far things for which I pine…
I stay so late, amidst longing & hate,
To keep on ruing all my fate…
& slowly say:
“Nothing will ever stand the test.
I will always become distressed…”
Then, finally find my way;
where staying still,
through good & ill,
through night & day…
I deem myself as yet I should;
not bad… not good,
I think not what I’d have or would;
Throughout the sham,
I simply am…
Rooted within;
through a world possessed by “what has been”,
& “what will might”;
Dispersed between all grief & fright,
I shall not fight,
I only dwell,
& tell
those who’ll say I’m delayed,
“you’re at stalemate”
I am not late,
I no longer seek to satiate…
My day-to-day:
I stay this way…
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