and staggers in my breath,
the floods of memories,
resolutions and regrets. . .

a solid ghostly past
haunts the fluids of my eyes,

while ancient, hope-filled reveries
and insubstantial, woeful present
dance out of time,
grope for rhythm,
pine for rhyme…

while, partnered with sad ruptures,
sing mad and glad realities. . .

a quest to mend the chasmed rifts
but still preserve the self’s integrity. . .

and in my mind,
I turn my head
toward the golden gleaming,
hanging, glistening droplets teeming
in the tangles of the web
we weave. . .

I can yet
for wonders pray and hope
though my eyes
need now
for help
another kind of scope
for time is come and gone
for this, that, or another one
to sadly, lastly leave.

Until such scope
shall to me come,
My earthly eyes
comprise my only seeing ways. . .

So, scattered,
and distraught,
I do my best to glance around
and try to find the ones I’ve lost
somewhere among
the whitecapped, choppy waves
and wind and sun.

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