Inadequate
Year after year,
I peel away the skin of time,
swallow its juice, listen
to yesterday's whispers
dripping
between the planks
of memory.
Year after year,
I trudge along, groping
for answers,
only to see them vanish
through a door
that isn't there.
I spit seeds into the wind,
knowing
that even the questions
extend further
than I can reach.
© Copyright 2003 Laryalee Fraser
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