© 2016 Steve King
All rights reserved
I struggle to see through the world each day.
It’s only afterward, when shadows sing,
that time comes into view a certain way,
to hold my eye and all imagining.
The past becomes more real with every turn,
and firms its hold in steady increments;
each faint remembrance there begins to burn,
while present fancies readily relent.
The ancient and obscure alike compete
with every sense that measures what is new.
The current moment bides its own repeat,
to fortify that undiminished queue,
and every instant I had thought complete
now finds a way to reinvent the true.