I see
such a rush of time,
objecting to mankind,
it’s frightening, I’m igniting
at my heedings.

I sense
such a loss of time,
obtusely, in decline,
it’s scary, I’m wary
of my pleadings.

I seek
such a blast of time,
observing essence refined,
it’s unveiling, I’m prevailing
in my feedings.

I seem
such a waste of time,
obversely, wrong design,
it’s dismissing, this reminiscing
of my bleedings.

Erin Moen
3/15/04
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