I've grown wary of time;
its immutable intervals
of incessant hours.
The warmth of now,
the grey of then.
Is now not just
an analysis of when
this happened
and that was felt?
Scars, of mind and flesh,
act as bookmarks in
secret autobiographies.
Was it even dark then?
Will the present etch in me
a reference point;
a bench to sit and reminisce.
Or will this all be lost
from the narrative;
omitted casually from
the now of days to come.