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