Poem: In passing

In passing

I hate the way the day drifts by,
How the tens become elevens then one, two, three.
It’s a counting clock that resets each night,
When sleep tricks me into believing dreams.

I try to face forward on this train through time,
Though the winds blow me back to past stories,
I’ll never be able to breathe the whole sky,
A child of blood, barely tasting infinity.

An eye that see’s

Briefly.

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