the bucket list
of "never gonna happen"
gets shorter by the day
as does my breath, now.
every morning
is that little bit tougher
to wake to - a little
less energy to get out of bed
and face what must be faced
the dubious consolation
of not having to do this much longer
is offset
by the many jobs
soon to be left undone,
things - unseen,
promises - unkept
so much missing - soon
and so self-inflicted
self-loathing inducing.
Really the words of heart. So much bitter realities but woven into the fabric of aesthetics that such harsh post post modern life seems an ideal one like in romantic age. Though there is no escapism but I see Keats as if he is around and dictating these words.
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