I don’t think I add much to this world;
in fact, I don’t think much at all. I do obsess
about the wrongness of it. Don’t think much
about what goes right; instead I think much
about people, their sadness, their depression;
how to stop them from becoming endemic.

So I don’t add much to the world. What with my health failed,
my being slipping off the table of bounty;
my being feeling ripped off and then violated.
Don’t think much or add much; when I do
it’s in trespass on the meaning of humanity.

In fact, I am not of this world; at the least,
not much of me is. These days I instead am seated
angrily in my corner chair, wanting to rage
at something, anything; then the seconds tick by
and I grow calm, calmer, waiting for something
to happen that will ease my anxiety. Nothing comes

and it dawns on me that I don’t in fact belong here; rather,
I am from the present moment somewhere else,
somewhere which exists only moments away
but is a footstep closer than anyone can go
without an escort or a fellow traveler
to guide them. I am the escort, the fellow traveler;

in that role I have become seamlessly hungry
for experience, am dancing light among the clouds
of worry and pain. A split second away
is my home, exactly like this one but
newer, fresher, filled with bones and blooms.
I don’t think much of it. Instead I feel it,

I stick it to my own bones, I sit with it
until it fades and is gone into a different world.
I cannot follow. I cannot go there
for a long time yet, say the shadows.
I stay here, not thinking much;
I stay here with you, and we are fading away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T