Just Time


On the shelf in my room, in boxes and bags
Books and books of drawings
Notes
Poems
Diaries
What does it all mean in the end?
Is this material immaterial?
I could leave, set the house on fire
Who would care?
Mine is merely another life
Another soul
Living out their time on earth
Like a cricket or a cicada
I chirrup my unintelligible nonsense
That is of no consequence to anyone
And then I’m gone
And no-one cares
I don’t even care
It’s just time
And gone

And its ok – it’s all ok. 

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