still...
still
pitch dark
six am
clocks turn
in seven days
away
into future
making
today past
history
a day
like many others
mundane
as
to each
his own
hers too
of course
sadly
the dull
sword
of correctness
leaves
only misery
the hacking
into a messy
decapitation
no clean
face plant
basket drop
tie
my hair
in a bun
attached
to a swing
and let me
as a child
ride
the view
one last time
no memory
no consequence
no rebuttal
no retribution
and no
not happening
here
today
execute not
the vicious
the cruel
the evil
simple ponder
on the walk
to the flames
that cook
the day's
labor
major
minor
minuscule
into
another sunset
painted rich
as sailors
delight
a simple photo
pleases me
and why not
as I type this
as days
go by
still
pitch dark
