Acceptance

Sometimes when I want to write in prose
It only comes out in poetry
Sometimes when I start a poem
It actual seems like prose
Just add a period
And the appropriate commas
And you have yourself a paragraph
Perhaps the real thing is to accept
That every scribble
Or act of written expression
Redundant or otherwise
Is an attempt to live forever
To scrape one's name in the concrete
That will somehow not fade in the rain and sun
And stay with the world
Even if the physical body gives out
So the writing is in fact a form of rejection
Of the fact of impermanence
And so would I yet write
If I could accept
The end drawing nearer
The end of the sentence
Or poem
Though it make create that sense
Of reader
Or author
Satisfaction
It's finality reflects the finality it seeks to deny
With misplaced apostrophes pre-cracking the concrete
And helping the world forget
Something I swore I would always remember
Yet can never find the tip of my tongue
To say the word or phrase
That might reveal the malaise
Or perhaps its resolution
And so I scribble
As a form of acceptance
That I shall never accept
Endings


Nor shall a given ending
Even should it feel final
Truly be an ending
For the thread is not limited by its cut end
As its history
And future
And separated component
Yet live on
Sometimes separated by more than space
Should circumstance eliminate a time
And so I too wander along
Forgetting my acceptance
Wondering if I've written it down
And not stopping
Except
To sleep
And to accept
The end