The Time For A Truth

12th March 2009

Much less time than yesterday;
I wish I didn’t take the express.
Knowledge and power –
     theoretically –
     by Foucault.
The blur of my memory induces a rush of blood to the head.
Without fail –
     this conjures up
     emotions of
     sadness.
The mild anger of a day not
     yet begun, of a day not
     yet brightened by
     the sun that emerges from the
     slow dawned clouds
     in a
     boring completely molded figure.

My blue shoes fade as the morning drags on.
A sense of dread drips from the ends of my
loose laced feet.
The lack of existing constructions;
knowledge new and unfamiliar.
A tunnel of green of the monotony I
     see every day.

A bad day.
The invisible rain –
     the drops that fall off my nose.
A forgotten stream of lines in a
     forgotten
     conversation, an existing construction of
     truth.

“Clearly,
I don’t matter.”

The best thing since sliced bread – a machine;
     boundless to the imagination,
     refusing to operate to the needs and requests.
Annoyance.
Time.
The ticking clock, more sense towards dread.

A battle for an
     explanatory truth.

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