whimsy and revision
Ostracising on occular complexes
Perhaps is one of the few activities
That I think we fail to realize
The full mundanity of
... which
... it ... is?
Preparedly and prepositionally
I've lain in wait
Accepting planning and fortitudes
Of anticipation as my mechanism
And merit.
These fall short when faced
With the faces of those
That I thought one day
Would never look
The way they do today.
Not horrible, terrible,
Terrifying, strange
Or fearsome,
But different, disparate
Better and worse.
The changes of process
I see day to day
Account none for the
Total sum of the way
That I see now these faces
Facing me now
In their state of being
And being somehow
Something more, and more
Still something less
And less beyond all
We have see them before.
I have seen them all.
But never like this.
Never to date
Has my imagination
Begun to contemplate
The scale of change
The dynamic of shift.
These things I thought
I knew
I knew not
And am now set adrift.
Afloat, affluent, afforded
Affectioned.
Loved, loving, reconciled
Reputation.
So how to reconcile
The face of my own.
I see a man in the mirror
Whose name is gone.
We all have some idea of our past.
Some idea of the present,
How long it will last.
We are but our own
best and proudest muse.
Withering details will flutter aside
As new blossoms form.
Yet so slow.
So gradual.
The art of patience,
Immaculate and strategic.
I have been so oblivious to it.
And now I witness, with the strongest sensation
That I must be patient and impatient
With myself the most, in every way.
Face forward for the face you face
Is your own.
Look backward to know
The face you have known.
To the side you will see
Your own enemy.
To the other you find
Your strongest aligned.
The now is a mirror,
A reflection of things past
But newly made images
That will not last.
We wish for these frail
And hollow ideas
To remain eternal
When none of it is.
To last forever it would seem
Would be the best.
To fall back and follow
The path of rest
Is seen as weak and
Immaterial.
However, to an end, it is the way we all will be.
Perhaps is one of the few activities
That I think we fail to realize
The full mundanity of
... which
... it ... is?
Preparedly and prepositionally
I've lain in wait
Accepting planning and fortitudes
Of anticipation as my mechanism
And merit.
These fall short when faced
With the faces of those
That I thought one day
Would never look
The way they do today.
Not horrible, terrible,
Terrifying, strange
Or fearsome,
But different, disparate
Better and worse.
The changes of process
I see day to day
Account none for the
Total sum of the way
That I see now these faces
Facing me now
In their state of being
And being somehow
Something more, and more
Still something less
And less beyond all
We have see them before.
I have seen them all.
But never like this.
Never to date
Has my imagination
Begun to contemplate
The scale of change
The dynamic of shift.
These things I thought
I knew
I knew not
And am now set adrift.
Afloat, affluent, afforded
Affectioned.
Loved, loving, reconciled
Reputation.
So how to reconcile
The face of my own.
I see a man in the mirror
Whose name is gone.
We all have some idea of our past.
Some idea of the present,
How long it will last.
We are but our own
best and proudest muse.
Withering details will flutter aside
As new blossoms form.
Yet so slow.
So gradual.
The art of patience,
Immaculate and strategic.
I have been so oblivious to it.
And now I witness, with the strongest sensation
That I must be patient and impatient
With myself the most, in every way.
Face forward for the face you face
Is your own.
Look backward to know
The face you have known.
To the side you will see
Your own enemy.
To the other you find
Your strongest aligned.
The now is a mirror,
A reflection of things past
But newly made images
That will not last.
We wish for these frail
And hollow ideas
To remain eternal
When none of it is.
To last forever it would seem
Would be the best.
To fall back and follow
The path of rest
Is seen as weak and
Immaterial.
However, to an end, it is the way we all will be.