It seems easy to lose interest.
Seems there is a good amount out there that have never even had it.
It could be the result of a Zeitgeist to which one has never really subscribed, or simply lethargy.
Whatever it is, you gotta hope it makes you.
Hones, hewn and turns you, till you are tight inside.
And ready to unwind when the time strikes.
It can be a simple night.
A path not crossed twice, or made timeless, so already entwined.
It simply resides, as some bad existences of life
A consistency one finds themselves rather to not define
Torn between oneself and that other side
It’s not within the comprehension of mind.
And it can take a body, with a redwing wrapped casket
And vodka gimlets
At the bowling alley
To find a slip of family
It only leaves you to think
What is it to me?
Pick apart these faces
Looking for a piece
Eyes, ears, a nose?
High cheekbones?
Phylum deciphering in all the wrong places
Forgetting nothing is ever a simple defining.