Repetition of Time

Repetition of Time

Lbena T-Michael 

Life never stops until it stops...

And it’s for that, I move 

With a sense of time -

Oh so challenging to consume.

I presume the future is fate -

Destined to be. 

Assured by the natural occurrence of repetition... 

But these feelings feel novel

So I hold my reservations. 

I hold onto my anxieties. 

I hold onto my rage.

I hold onto the fact this might be my last day. 

I contemplate the end like it’s something to be avoided. 

I contemplate death like it’s something to be rewarded. 

But the only thing I win is disturbance of mind.

And the only thing I feel is repetition of time. 

Repetition of my anxieties. 

Repetition of my rage. 

Repetition without lesson is simply a barren page. 

Questioning if this is truly what life has in store -

A cycle of echoes from times before...

Like a revolving door. 

But in a brief lapse...

Spiralling becomes flat.

Vision becomes clear. 

Saturation appears where dullness is feared. 

The spirit of hope -

Or perhaps something more.

The possibility that life can restore, 

and feed my delusions perhaps a little more. 

But perception is reality -

So be it delusional, alas. 

I search for meaning within that grasp.

And hold it tight to form a cast.

For what if the cycle is more than it seems?

What if it’s guiding toward forgotten dreams?

I presume the future is fate - 

Destined to be mine.

So I let go of my anxieties. 

I let go of my rage. 

I let my life write itself upon the barren page.