Count hours.
Pangs-a-plenty that pace around the stomach
Through the bowels
Up the throat
When nothing;
No one can
Warn a simple being
Of the sickening, heart-dropping feeling
That comes with growing older
How there is an urge
To speak the tongue of hopelessness
Not trusting a spirit beyond self
To learn without a boost
Yet in selfish anticipation
The truth is but a spark
From realization
That all is a matter of finding
And none is that of being taught
Monday, November 19, 2007
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