oughtism (47)

This time, I will not put myself
through the paces of disappointment.

Here, the sky turns pink,
a rosy, sleepy lavender
and makes the red dirt seem
to glow.

I think of you, and the dirt
beneath your feet, how it reaches
up to claim you.

You don’t have to be good.
You only have to come and walk
with me through the late day,
our shoes pushing the brown leaves aside,
our voices low in the gathering dusk.




“do you look at your life?” i thought
everyone did – but do you
make eyes at your own history? where
are the moments that are stories within themselves?
rarely have we written ourselves down – and why?
even our triumphs are marred by mundanity.
still, it is an inimitable existence
and the time, however passed, is ours. Continue reading