Tapioca

It is ticking.

Like a time bomb, the hours tick

away.

Nothing seems to change, except that newly found gray hair.

I am boundless

yet, every mystery that unfolds inside

my scattered mind makes me just a bit more or less of what I thought I was

once.

I am the wind.

Shifting but aimless.

Because . . .

I have come to one conclusion.

That is

this is not me.

This is not my life.

This is not my dream.

This is not my plan.

This is not my goal.

This is not my love.

This is not my work.

This is not . . .

What was was. What will be will be.

Because . . .

This is not me.

This is not white.

This is not black.

This is not fair.

This is not rich.

This is not poor.

This is not destiny.

This is not . . .

What they promised broke.

It is under my control I know.

Tapioca.

Sunsets, sands, beach and surf.

Pretty woman with pastel eyes.

Wet kisses thanking my insight.

Fresh squeezed lemonade with sugar.

Wonderful in-color dreams.

And, tapioca.

How many days can I waste before

I die.

Minutes ticking.

Like a thermo-nuclear time bomb.

Here then over.

Total devastation.

I want some lemonade again.

Tapioca.

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