It is not
time to go.
Much time was left
all so long ago;
bold favours, unfavoured by my
nature. Thus I
processed what I could, how
I could and, I could not,
of course,
many lesser of me
exist. This is
not enough, it is not
       enough. How does
one write? To inhale? Most
not likely. Rushing through this
won't help much. Undiscernable
        rhythm. Many dances
were velvet. This leads not to knowing
much. Much is all a softness.

Watch me, world, I might
breathe  on you  so gently.
             Much. Much is all softness.