Though the waves make me feel like it,
I am not alone.
There is a crew of people
in vessels just like mine. Silently moseying across
mere mosaic majestic water scapes. Kept away from who they yearn for
trying to make their apart mend.
The breadth between
him and her
them and you
it and us
is not measured by imperial ruler sticks, nor metric formulas.
Not through light
or years flinching,
no meters
or microns inching.
No feet, shoes, or hands
but by what makes us weak
not by what is there
but what is not
our heart,
beat.
Distance equals time minus recordings
of not your beat
but the skip in-between,
until the skip skipped over the beat.
And it is not seen
as the gap
for it is the rhythm that creates
the rhyme, and with all its tact
creates the beat
in its emptiness,
sublime.
Bound to only one to ameliorate,
no other but the line of time.
YOU ARE READING
My Life, A Canvas.
PoetryForeword This poem is about adapting to change, adjusting alterations, remodeling redesigns, reshaping modifications, and about recognizing reorientation. Over the last few decades, we've experienced peak globalisation. Unfettered global trade a...