Hi, Gary here. Well, not a lot to say about me really. I'm just a simple boy with a wonder at the word. I wrote this poem. Just let my essence bleed on the page (NotePad) in an intense frenzy of language. The piece is entitled, ""It's Just Time"".
The future is a mist in which I cannot see.
Hazy grey days, play away and eat hay: like a ghost
horse eats hay (ghost hay), every day. Somehow.
Remorse for (most of) the dead and unborn
will run its course.
The future, when you think you about it, is nothing more than me
or you, or any of us, and what we can do is reguarly take a
bus to the past. The journey will last through the present
and tear through the fabric of any tense left untorn.
Wait, I missed the bus. Shit.*
The future I missed (i.e. did not see)
weighs a great deal of pounds (and pence) on shoulders.
Shoulders you and me could not even concieve of
if we tried, and try we do. Hence;
One day a horse will be run over by a bus,**
and time will at last reach an end that is just.
A bit of hay will fall from the horse's mouth,
in a slow, solemn breeze of atmospheric grace.
Fin.
*I was actually at the stop on time, but didn't have the right change, and they wouldn't take a note.
** The bus will be going well fast.
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