My fingertips grasp at
a ghost of future’s glory.
Forever is in sight,
but just out of my reach.
I fumble with patience,
never calling it my own.
My mind spins and searches,
turning all the facts over.
I apply reasons to signs,
but it’s only to cope.
The end starts with the beginning,
but the beginning has already ended.
What depths of depravity
can hold this strongly forever?
I ask God if there’s an answer;
surely there’s a limit?
We only get one first impression,
but a tragedy has multiple acts.
Second impressions are layered,
while third impressions are fluid.
I’m struck like lightning,
but the thunder doesn’t roll.
Which will break first:
me or the levy?
Every road is flooded;
every runway is blocked.
Every anchor is dropped,
and against my will.
The boat noses forward,
but my oars are held back.
The elephant is now
too big for the room.
The questions aren’t
worth asking anymore.
Each new day is as
Schrödinger’s cat.
Every 24 hours is
both death and life.
I wait in the margins,
but I’ll never give up.
R.P.D. Sanders