the somehow of time

some of the times, 

I lay down the moment,

as if a departing cut rose

in a funeral of an afterthought.

memories crowd up.

all rush to the window of connection.

they crush an emotion out of me,

as if a lasting impression

evades the time mentored.

that which happens so unevenly

challenges sanity at the core.

what was just a sight

somehow became a gravity

and so much more of my person is engaged.

intimacy is such a private concern

and yet, emotions bleed out unexpectedly.

there are no straight lines.

just the weave of telling myself

about what is just happening,

that takes me up and down

on a sea of self as surface appearing.

it is as if I have a bouquet of notables

and they wear me as my garden.

but my tending to them

goes beyond my sense of being.

always surprised by moment's call

when that within my garden

comes to bloom and then dies.

yes, dies in its livingness onward.

and I had thought that

I kept it all to my tending self.

that which then goes out into the world

to see no more,

as mood or thought.

it may speech its death honorably.

it may action through me,

revealing my composition and character.

I become sudden in clarity of character,

but helpless to be otherwise.

I am only composed 

of that of me which makes of itself,

my self as evident.

all my behavior is ink drying on the page,

that I come to read as me.

my philosophy is incomplete sentences.

I am the gist of me, pressing on.

many times, at the birth of a funeral

or at the death of what just happened,

in a cathedral mindset way.

where just-about-to's or right-just-afters happen.

I lack the genetics of timing in that way.

and so my emotions are made of catch-up rushes

or of what was, that is recently gone,

as if a kind of caring that feels ill-timed.

I have a love that lives

in the shadows just around the corner.

and so I embrace a greater than

the story told will ever reveal.

I walk the grounds of pre and after-thought

as with a sacredness within me.

timing is cruel on my behalf.

but I have become rich in aura,

even though I am a lessor 

in presence physically accounted for.

I am the experience of time warp as memories,

presenting as the now, 

ever so slightly displaced.

I am a chase-after of myself.

life becomes the reading of words

that either never made it

or were to come.

in either case, 

they are paging me.

I am a read of either before or after.

and my emotion ever embraces me,

with a very different sense 

of space and time . . .