It's mid-month.
But how?
Where are all those days?
Once upon a time,
days were shoved neatly into rows -
like tiles in a perfect pattern...
weren't they?
Now, the days are tossed rubble:
fragmented,
deformed,
or missing, altogether.
And I wonder whether I was awake through those disjointed days, or whether my mind was kicked into some kind of timeless void?
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged poem, poetry, time by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
