“Why?” is such a stiff word.
Turning the tired pages,
the yellowing of time’s harvest of
all the same words.
Always the same words
from different mouths,
yellowing in their age,
lost under time’s indifference.
Times that are lost and
times looked-for in arrival; but they never do.
The repeated bleats of the lost lambs,
the mothering lodes of the head waters
slaked in the cold tops of bald hope.
Pained in the bones of a book’s spine,
covered by the hand’s grasp of a maybe:
maybe, then maybe, will be, but it never is
the answer to the eternal question:
why is there such a thing called eternity
in man’s longing?
But “why?” is such a stiff word,
don’t you think?
With apologies to #RSThomas
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