Anachronistic

Etched on the scape of eternity

unlike every footprint is

what I scribble

on these pages

is far from art or poetry

Pages that are

at times inviting,

oft ambivalent,

sometimes mocking,

ridiculing me for misplaced diligence

Like any other

the limited hours, four and twenty,

that I get

between two sunsets

I squander away few

skittering my way across the blankness

trying to carve a poem

or a portrait of a life unlived

a story, an incident,

real or imagined

hoping to fill the

blankness of the pages,

the unyielding emptiness

of my days

spread out across the horizons

yawning in my mind

to mean a meaning

more than the babble

gibbered away ceaseless

between my ears,

a tinnitus unrelenting.

A verse it becomes at times,

at times just an emotion hung up

waiting for a raft

to cross the brims of the heart

overflowing

At other times

just an awkward ensemble of words

looking for cover

to cower away

from judging eyes

and punctuation prying

Not a quest to convey any secrets

hitherto unknown or unveiled

Nor an ambition to leave a mark on posterity

or a thirst to outdo the history

Just an attempt at living

beyond the banalities of being

anachronistic in the twenty-first century