Ceteris Paribus

No papers in my satchel here beside,
nor projects, nor notations. Any plan
is wanting.  Wanting.  All my dreams have lied
in fading regress of a fading man.

A thousand days I’ve started, never one,
and given to a hundred sunsets pause
enough to live.  To live.  If there were none,
I’d still be here sequestered–without cause–

as now, but in a void revealing.  Cold
and empty, serving as I wait, I’m told,

but empty: too aware of wasted steps,
and unprepared for what I can’t delay.
For me there is no sanctuary left:
if there are words, they are not mine to say.


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