The times we live in
When do you live? In a masterpiece yet to be completed With blinding details Lost in the brushes of smaller strokes. You live in the end Of a white feather covered by sand. I can only wonder all the grains you missed On your way here, all the moments you could have paused. Bargained for a bare naked bone, lost and forgotten. When do you live? In writer’s block In the squirt of paint Slashed on a canvas. At the start of a bending road With no end in sight But maybe salvation, maybe doom. When do you live In this moving thread? Stuck in old chambers, Or in the sound of ticking clocks, Or caught in the hunt For something - Eternal?