Poetry | Journal

thousands of metaphors for the time spent,
a measure of existence as currency in itself,
mile markers in ones temporal awareness,
though philosophers have yet to decide
what time can be or mean to start with;
where
the rain is always pattering
pooling just past the azaleas,
festering in the gravel,
coaxing little clouds of petricor
up and around and enveloping
the moon
always waning
always maternal
just before the sun pulls a blanket of warmth
from behind like the chariot Icarus chased
a hundred thousand metaphors and analogies
exist within the little groans of morning and exaggerated yawns of dusk
the human experience, doing its God damned best, to explain itself
without a leg to stand, just a barbed wire wrapped fence post to lean on,
l’appel du vide in pleated chiffon
we love the bookends a decade presents
we beckon and revel
in nostalgia
in hope
in art