Eleven

The time hits twelve; the time turns past.

Versing (Freely)

That’s now (then) & here (there), though.

Here I sit.

I told her of the stag of memory; of th’earth; of private moments lived; of th’night.

With gracile step, agilic poise, ‘n purity he’d leapt from th’dark off to my right-side.

I see myself still strolling.

Lapped waves wash, broken-crested – I am young.

T’was o’er ‘n through this coastly scene we traced the tracks of mem’ry.

I perform great feats.

Endless as the fires of night.

Ends; begins. Writ; collected.

The Trow’s resuscitated – see the blackwhite gable draped along in hanging baskets.

Where once I was I am no more – no longer does that me exist.

Their lines stretch finite.

Your essence, earnestly put forth unto impermanence to weather storms of whetherwhims.