Figure eight, my mind.
Configuring my time
for myself and all my other crimes.
We walk in single file to hide our numbers.

Carve our own roads for a while
and hope that they collide.
In time, on our own. Happy.
Highway, side by side.

Time’s just… hard to explain,
it’s always there, somewhere,
but it usually doesn’t matter.
Everything could be gone right now
and still, people complain.
I’ve never really worried
about how long anything takes
and I’ve always felt we’d make it.

The things we want, or need, leave
and we’re left with what we make of us.
I belong in the circus
or an old shack by the sea.

Deviate for fun.
Re-create or run
inside to see what develops.
We walk in single file to hide our numbers.

Silence speaks and sometimes I understand it.

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