Are we here
for my story?
Is it clear
I fear glory?
I would like to be
a leaf on a tree,
a temporary fragment
whose pigments
will always gray to dust
by the first twinkle
of a snow's assertive crust.
Are we here
to be dear?
I hold my tears
in a field forever fallow
by the salt of all the stings
of every regret.
Each digression
a progression
deviating only
from a previous sense of plan.
This cup shows its cold
by dew that cannot drop.
I am as empty as full,
and that is how to manage
a tank.
Fuel optimization
is why we are here.
It is clear
we hear
when we listen.
Roman Ryan 