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Why should we wait until the.
End, shouldn’t we get it right.
Away? You long for sleep
When you really crave. The bed
Is a tomb for lackadaisical. Pushovers
Whose Lent is a torrid. Pace of counting
Cows instead of. Counting sheep
Like a shepherd makes you. A leader
Of a lazy clan of. movers billowy puffs
Of white directed by. A rod with a hook
For turning, correcting and. Discipline
Seems perfect for my next. Life is a time.
Piece, and I am a second hand wishing to be.
An hour hand on the lazy river of a pocket.
Watch me turn back the. Clock and become
A time traveler leaping forwards. And back to
Centuries worth of agony. Joy and anticipation.

But I do not change for. An instant is my curse
For meddling in. the affairs of a timeline
Picking and choosing the west, the east
Any alternate direction than the one. I have now.
I wish I were a. Timeline in that I can move
History. To locations unknown, like the
Distant. Future, so our pasts don’t converge
Into one. Another and malign our. Present to gift
Wrap one tragedy with. Another and call it our
Heritage of. Heresy

Or are we. An hourglass emptying in. to a
Pit or valley with each. Other one.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Speck at a
Time? Either no one notices, or. No one cares
Because the sand collapsing to. Earth is soothing
To hear. And doesn’t pound. Like a clocks ticking
Or a history book’s charts and. Graphs displaying
Who did what, when that. Occurred. Or whose to
Blame. We all look the same collecting stale
Glances and grief romances in one. Orgy of
Defeated souls looking for another’s .
.
.
.
.
company to
console them on their. Recent fall from grace.
Because after all, when was the last. Time someone
Asked you what time it. Was? Does no one care
Or do we really. Not know that existence is
Worth. Something to Someone. Else.

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About R. Ward

A husband, father, teacher, and struggling man of God.

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