It is for the zero year,
I would have my time again.
Stripped bare of these
The written chronicles,
And the words of my mouth.
The listing of events,
Of life and its contents, partners,
Friends and parallel times.
All the things of our throw of a dice youth
Which have become long since cubed.
Earlier years have run its course.
It is and will remain a tumbled down past.
A chronos we once shared.
And now it’s just a library of cold mindfulness.
Cold as the dead.
So what then is this?
A signed off, cut off chapter?
Simple text on a page of thoughts?
A vision, memory or sighting?
Chances taken or regretted?
Retrograde steps diarised?
Thoughts through a window?
Or a quiz inquisitors list?
Perhaps it is fondness,
Or the certainty of memories.
There is a dearth of years ahead.
This bank of knowledge is bespoke,
However it is a useless tear
As dusty as this useless teartime.
(c) 2018 Christopher Thompson.