Not Exactly

It was a pondering

That did not seem worthwhile

To waste, but not to spend

Time that would run out there,

For someone else to take,

And do with as they pleased.


Take it, waste it, lose it,

A rhythm of itself

That could not, would not stop,

To be taken over

By the infinity

Of a utopian.


The understanding flawed,

Faults on only one side,

Finally, an excuse

When Time felt right to leave

From the Wasting Station

Not exactly on time.



This poem is about: 
My country
Our world


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