yesterday approached to lay upon my table bare, sullen,
pale,
in breathless heaving agony and with hands feverishly tearing away
at its cheeks and eyes, till bloodened wet, and satisfied
and today wonders why it is and stumbles on with stuttering sentences,
it holds itself to keep its pace along the well-tread ground it stands upon,
but remembering why the passing time, it noisy slurps the dregs of dusk
in memory resentful fresh as it slips into the past again
over shoulder glances tomorrow to me,
as if to recognize the outlook dreary,
but quite contrary looks ahead to frantic searches for daylight's spread,
as if to affirm its only way to go as yesterday did,
or today, more so.
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