Each day was begun with a death
Of flimsy paper,
Ripped violently from
A kitschy calendar
The hours tumbled down
An unforgiving clock
The hands shoved and heaped
The minutes away
And another day ended
Everything in the world
A phoenix of no magic
Everything died unto itself
And was born unto itself
There is no myth
For we empty it out
Are there days in your calendar
That are empty?
Are there thoughts so loud in your head
That refuse to let you sleep?
Are there lists with little check-boxes
That taunt you?
Are there hours and days and years
That were swallowed anonymously?
Are there others with lives and dreams and achievements
That make yours seem small?
Are there any traces of the child and the teenager
That you once were?
Are there ways to change the heart
That won’t wound you and bleed you to death?
Are there words within you, deep within you
That have forgotten how to be born through your hand?
Are you there anymore?
Do you exist?