i was 17. it’s called never-ending.


trying on
the colors of night
they fall loosely about my soul
defining its shape
only slightly & not
touching the earth
but brushing the dust stirred up
by my feet
as i run.

i seek peace along
a well-worn trail, long forgotten &
dimmed by years;
one full day’s walk
from reality, i lie back

the grass sweeps
forth & back
across the sky
as the wind hushes through,
whispering of wisdom lost;
a fleeting light
catches on some hard, clear idea
& glitters back, rhyming
with a shadow in my mind

i dream my life backward
& watch it in the mirror:
the angle of the reflection
is equal to living
the purpose of this being
to never ever finish

the phobia:
fear of endings
which bring forth
beginning, building on
upward, the fear
of heights;

there is
much shelter
in the incomplete life…

as it is, i am afraid
to finish this poem

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