Lately I’ve been dried.
Like an October harvest, I felt the future pass.
Though, it was only the length that daydreams have,
and I keep moving, stilled from waiting.

It only seems ‘to smooth’ at night,
but I fall asleep before I believe.
“That time was mine to steal!”
I sit, inhaling stagnance from somewhere else.

You’d think by now there’d be something:
incessant, persistence towards a natural lack of resistance to change,
the results: To pass the future knowingly.
Like writing humidity back into my soul.

I want that static memory gone.
But, it’s distilled beneath my brain and wandering.
I only see myself holding a pen differently.
A technique I won’t hold onto long enough to change me.

I breathe in deeply.
The air shakes itself from my lungs
until the pieces of what God’s doing:
Time patient induction, upon myself lay clear.