by Listless Awake
Each bit that goes in,
else than what has went.
Each bit reminds soul,
a strange, familiar scent.
The sky of the rising sun,
witless of the sun that set.
Dust on the beggar hands,
ignorant of an erstwhile debt.
Pockets wear no cloth,
return what they never had.
Clouds that stop, and see,
a friend that they never met.
Each road, a Robert Frost,
the paths left untrodden.
Each bit, a virginal breath,
and last bit forgotten.
