An urgency to contemplate
Thoughts desperate for the words
It is as if it is still morning, as if
With the seconds dashing by
Are you misunderstood
You are misunderstood
Sometimes by others
But mostly by yourself
Yet the shadows
And the diary dates
Are the wheels
Which keep on turning
How not to be misinterpreted
On a lifetimes line of continuum
What with so many vantage points
From which to take a point of view
Necessary then the argument
Or discussion as some might name it
Yet the hurt lingers
Deeply questioning the purpose
Suffering of one’s own making
Inhibited by one’s own invitation
Not then at any frontier
For not one can be reached
Instead the refuge
Of second-half goals
Which brought doubt then defeat
In more or less equal measure
An urgency born of anxiety
With time and space and memory
All but being turned out
In the slow scrawl of morning
