Wading through the mud of it,
falling hands full of tricks.
This mess has come to grips
and it’s too late to clean.
I’ll keep you all under the bed,
waiting for a goodbye
while retracing these steps;
one forward, remembered
but two back, forgets.
Tracing the dimensions,
now fumbling in the past,
I get vertigo.
Watching myself letting myself go.
Can I abandon those old messes
that still surface when I look
away from the sun,
and see only the silhouette?
Part 3 of a three-part poem inspired by, and slightly paraphrased from, Where is the line? by Makenna Karas
Part 1 is here and part 2 here.
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
1994ever 