Archive
04/13/10 - (1)
Three to Six Months
Why time keeps prevaricating, elaborating on its lie Rather than speaking reliably, truth to truth, Is, to me, a conundrum of disorienting proportions. I used to believe, like a child learning how to tell time, That one could take time at face value, Never worry about being late for a date with fate. But all that changed when the end was just beginning And time and I argued, around the clock, Over just how long my doctors had given me to live. Despite their three-to-six-months prognosis, The hour of my decease kept getting preempted, Recalibrated into intervals between morphine doses. Now, it's been three years, five months, two weeks, Ten days, four hours, seven minutes, twelve seconds, And though time keeps slowing down, speeding up, It shows no signs of letting me know its true intentions As to when it plans to dispense with me. I'm living proof that a lie can have a life of its own.
04/13/10 - (1)
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