voluntas
giving in is more than i
expected of myself, but
there’s a reason for ever-
ything.
i forgot the meaning,
left before seeing
the error made.
as many spaces
between thought
prior and thought
now, and i still
cannot absolve
myself of all
that’s been said;
as many words
written, between
then and now, i
cannot unknow
what i did not
know then.
giving in
is more than i
expected of myself,
but the small hand
moves slow enough
that i could catch up,
stumble ‘on,
keep going,
and all those other
mediocre phrases
coined to
make one ignore defeat.
giving in is more than i
expected of myself, but i
know more now than ever
the lights on corner shine
whether i’m muddied or fine.
giving in is more than i
expected of myself, but i
guess pride is sold high,
while i knew only my
self, and no visitors,
but those from space,
came to visit, and i knew
the tiger stripes on
rain-soaked window would be
the only memory, for i
could control that moment, i
could wipe them away, or
sit and love their
path, the one of
least resistance, where
the reward is pooling,
lasting longer than if
they had stayed to dry
without…
giving in, i guess i
saw myself in ruin,
having given more
than taken, though
not if family counts.
returned to find
the memories of
a mind, failing
to see what waits
behind an image, or
animations, tuned-in
and clear, while
shadow crackles
’round who i was
behind eyes used
sparingly to see
myself, to see
anyone not in
front of me;
i gave in to
forgetting,
falling for
the clarity
of no conscience,
no scenery
not in front of me.