There's No Repairing
We perpetually emerge from the
shadows of previous moments,
stepping recklessly into the harsh
illuminations of redundancy—reruns
embedded in our autobiography.
Time is not reclaimable.
We somehow expect our secrets are
hidden.
There's no repairing past sorrows
or surrendering ourselves to the
prison of regrets. We are pre-disposed
to clarity—consciously choosing
the present breath. We discover our
liberation, devoid of opposing
tendencies.
But I am an outcast and heed the
voices of my own wind.