Always too late
03/29 2024
Not long after I watched the last snow melt,
And from rain pouring slow from drainpipes I felt,
I walked trying to hold it in my shaking hands:
Keeping ice as freezing ice in feverish lands.
Always too late, somehow.
And besides, I'll see you 'round.
It's not a memory, it's a lullaby.
Always too late, somehow.
And I hear of distant stories from long ago,
The laughter and nostalgia exploding, though
I'm standing with my hands in my pockets, frozen.
And a forgotten tune is hummed, I swear deliberately chosen.
Always too late, somehow.
Deep within the crevices of your mind
Does the time pass as quickly, and you as blind,
As this road downhill that passes the grounds of war?
We lost it many years ago; it was bloody and battered, and far.
Always too late, somehow.
I see the visions from long ago
As I'm talking with the future shining with heavenly glow
And I can't see the light in forever of forever,
Dancing up towards the sky, no cares whatsoever.
All too late, somehow.
Or much later leaning on a weary arm.
Looking up towards heaven with no idea of harm.
How quickly the sun turns to rain,
Though never enough to bring in ice and snows' reign.
All too late, somehow.
Kiss Odysseus on the lips and smile, yet
Let those eyes dart briefly outside towards spring's threat
It's so hard to see the promises for anything but lies,
Echoing hollow against the robin's youthful cries.
All too late, somehow.
Music keeps the attention of those in the corner
Don't look at them, they might think they're brave explorers
That dare to eat the dream and keep that sharpened needle
To sketch the truth on a handed-down brocade.
All too late, somehow.
I keep my head up as I pass from lie to lie;
How time is people and everlasting and true
And how we dance under moonlight without measure
In that ocean I dip my toes in now and then truth would be a treasure.
All too late, somehow.
Consumption ravages the newly-born
Just as we cough, alone, and roam lovelorn,
Over the vast wastelands of hollowed-out hearts
Tapping, tapping, on shoes against crystal shards.
Always too late, anyhow.
The well-kept lady picks her nails
And all my attempts to reach her fails
Tomorrow, how heavy a word
For the wings of past's lithe bird.
Always too late, anyhow.
Or in well-kept secrets emptied out on the floor
And the lawyer who laughs misses the cries for more
And doctors yawn at the groans of the living death
That struggle in the dark, alone, with strained breath.
Always too late, anyhow.
Or how she's hiding poorly in plain sight
And pulls her hair forward and leans to the right
To get the best view for a blinking star
She knows it's never really that far.
Always too late, somehow.