This poem was published in the U-Rights Magazine, Issue 2, April 2020
We travel far in the spaces and we return to time
We read the infinite skies and draw maps over roads
We may touch hearts, or hit, or hurt, or run
Eyes peek atop the left wrist in recurrent bewilderment
The haste is pressing, to pick to the volatile moods of fate
The wrist covers the eyes to liven frightened blinks
Presuming that time’s distressing marathon will soon ease.
Time takes us places and brings us back home
We are never freed from the chains we made
The hurt over the wounds we saw opening scribes live scars
Which mimic our secrets in thick ink over the aged canvases of time
These die not, that we crouch in groans where we first rose with pride.
Time keeps its fair vengeance,
And its vengeance hits hard.
