Just Enough Time
Sometimes I wonder:
if there is enough time
to do all that I think
I should do,
or I could do,
if I am not already too late,
if things aren’t already too messed up
to be saved, to be salvaged.
How does one go back?
smudge the mistakes that seemed like
the perfect things, back then?
back then..
the light of the hindsight
shines on the velvety dark
of the past
and everything shimmers.
Useless.
So I make promises
like a child,
to be meticulous the next time,
but a day today
imitates the day before,
cycles of eating, sleeping and waking
tiny variations of little details
trifling wins, trifling losses
but nothing changes.
Leafing through months and years
I scream,
I want out
this fever,
this disease,
this life.
How?
Is there time?
still?
for vague confusion?
for waiting?
for hoping?
for idyllic dreaming?
for harsh struggles?
and their unsatisfactory results?
Is there time?
it is running out
now
drained
stop, stop
escape and run.
leave all belongings.
of pointless longings
or they will snake up and
strangle wherever you go.
leave. escape.
don’t look back.
there is just enough time to do that.
Just that, and nothing more.