Is it okay if I go, now?
Will it be alright, if I stay...
There is no forest here, only trees.
So should I make a right,
it’s so hard: To find but anything but.
During this crashing, of tides.
but in me I do see myself.
The day turns to the next with a passage:
Events already set.
It will come:
The hour, the minute, the very last second.
In which I fall; no making it around and again, again.
There it will be; there it will stay.
And all, faults will be accepted.
To remember the inbetweens:
Of when and what;
either or neither the left or the right.
Nuances, to nuisances.
Troubles, to passing events.
Decisions, to patience in waits.
When the world blocks my path; when I fail to watch ahead:
In that spot, will I lay.
Staring towards all that which I may.
And when the world decides my place,
I shall have my desired peace.
Amongst the forest, through the trees.
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Comments about this poem (Bellelita by Dick Johnson )
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