There was a time, a place even,
but there was never a moment.

The moment died in the turning of a hand,
the wiping of a face, and the darkening of a day.
The era that spanned a palm with lines of misfortune
trailed itself across a brow to furrow, a mouth to frown,
found itself pocketed in the recess of a mind forgot.
Lodged in the pages of memory, written by a thought
that took flight with itself, everything etched itself deep,
ripped itself into pages gone, never a text to be studied.
What passing phase and turn of the earth took itself away?
Before a blink had blinked the century proudly strayed on
and left all ideas of aspiring this to fall in the 'if onlys'.
Now i cannot put my foot forward to step onto this path,
but tilts limp and motionless, a reminder of a nothing
to happen which covers my days in a déjà vu I cannot place

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