it is this, isn’t
it?
whatever this, meaning it,
is?

centric timeline
visions
forward unknown, past
concrete
unwinding,
pliable and tried, stubborn
only
when worst applied 
survive.

no, wait, now wasn’t it
thrive?

supposing supposed to be
oh,
some ode abides by
solitary company, when
crowded
permissible by the
unallowed
aloud, so whispered and
listlessly 
lingered about
this,
whatever it is, if
reality comes to
call,
is
this existence, surely, 
or?
it missed this, mist 
of
never being in proximate
perpetuity, so
this sensation slips to
eternity,
like all the rest, blessed
as burden
fervent
excursions of mind, if
you don’t mind