Late

I wish I had time to say lovely words

That would break on the soul like the whistles of birds

But I’m late for myself, and I’ve waited so long

That it’s hard to desire even the simplest song.

The world is too much with us, one poet said,

And he might have been right, but now he is dead,

And I listen to the lilt of his Romantic phrase—

When I have time, I’ll surrender my days

To the wanderings of a more magical time, I suppose,

When the world seemed endless and full of sweet prose.

But today I am already late for my life

That stands stagnant and lasting—a staring Lot’s wife.

I walk through the sunlit days of my youth,

Eyes forward and focused on the illusion of truth.

I sleep in a room that is warm, but is dark

Like a womb or a nest or the hull of an ark.

Unaware of the light, I determine my fate

As a scheduled event—for which I am late.

                                    -Kaitlyn Medina                       [9/7/10]

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