How much more of it remains?
The night is brief.
My hand traces invisible lines through each day.
Life has its endings, but I wonder again why and
how do we create so many boundaries? How
much do we know of what we call ourselves? And what
more is left, at this late date, to be discovered there?
Of what am I really thinking when, with sudden fear,
it seems that everything is impossible, that nothing
remains? Have I used it all up–the synapses firing,
the cells’ ability to regenerate rather than destroy? The
night and the day and the sky and the land? Why
is it so difficult to relocate the silence, that interlude of
brief completion when everything is being born again?
The NaPoWriMo prompt today is a reverse Golden Shovel poem–instead of placing the words from the selected poem at the end of each line and writing around it, the words are placed at the beginning. Either way, it’s a good way to approach writing when you’re stuck. I’ve chosen a haiku from Masaoka Shiki for my poem, but I’m adding a little afterward from Joan and Bob.
Tears of rage, tears of grief
Why must I always be the thief?
Come to me now, you know we’re so alone
And life is brief
Also for Muri’s prompt of a Golden Shovel poem with the theme of change.