Something conspires to read me
Secondstreched over the
Nomenclature of time where
Minutes find me sitting upon a
Liturgy of failed pardons, the
Scant of Excess relinquished
To lostridden threads of dreams
Like a caress to the softest of lips
These lips of freedom
Have been kissed
Yet after all these years of journey
Decades past in self-discovery
I feel no closer to the answers
Than when I was at the very start …
And that’s okay –
That’s OK.
© K. James Ribble