slow, fast, far flung

how slow the hours in which I am writing
how fast the seconds
the minutes
years with her by my side
how far flung the penumbras late at night
tall giants that loom ever behind our walking shoes
thick white lanes droopy in the rain
how fast we run, flinging ourselves into the unknown

and then there is tomorrow
i am always dreading the tomorrows
the nexts
and the must haves
lists which pile up like dirt under your fingernails
and how slow the clock moves, until penultimate questions of magnetic flux and electrical current are far from my mind
ink blots on the page from the lack of culmination
nothing ever finishes

“it is finished”

how fast
and slow
and far flung
how deep and wide and vast
the shadows that grow long
as we age

the time we have given
and how short
is there nothing
or anything

speak in grandeur and pretention
only thing left is the words
no meaning
not musings

the bird only flies alone

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