DEATH Poem: TIME, by Elizabeth Willett

It is as if I am floating,
maybe in a small boat
meandering past banyan roots
and floating rocks,
or like a kite in the sky,
evading zapping bolts.
Sometimes there are huge bumps,
heart stopping drops,
long periods of ennui or
maybe sleep. Time is
real or not, mostly, I think, not.
I look ahead on the road
and try to peer beyond
the fog, the signs, bright
red neon say
Today, Tomorrow,
and Maybe just as
the fog closes in.
I walk, wondering how
I got here, and had there
been a boat, or a kite?

Author: poetryfest

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