I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.
I shall pass like a child’s curlicue cut with a burnt stick at night.
I know I shall pass like the front of dark clouds blown hard by dry desert wind.
I know I shall pass like the pitter-patter of toddler’s feet on this floor have already passed.
I know we shall pass like like the reflection of 1960s shoppers off downtown storefront windowpanes. They have passed from that glass and we have passed, glancing at our reflection perhaps.
I know this world shall pass like silver light in receding flecks from the ocean surface. Any minute now.
I know know the messages of this world and its glow shall pass like words that went unsaid, unheard.
Say them now.