the left days
the ones of this decade
are scant
ten til' thirty
and the end of an error
(substantial enough
to be an era?)
The end of the unpublished
The end of the unheard
the next ten days
I'll do nothing but look
back and see what has been
built and what has yet to be
I'll grow patch of bare skin
I'll get lost in nostalgia
I'll cry I'm sure at some point
to nausea
And then
I'll let go of it
like the Gods have always
said to me
let it go to know it's yours
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