Tattered,
Yellowed pages,
Broken spines,
Fading ink,
Softening memories,
Dusty covers,
Sitting on the shelf
Watching me
And wondering
When I will return
To them,
And ask them
What happened
To us both
Over the years.
Who misses
Who
More?
I fear them
More than they fear
That I won’t
Return
To them.
Timothy Vance Jackson
March 20, 2012
I find
Myself
Between
The words
And the searching.
In the friction
Between
The finding
And the
Wanting,
I exist
In the space
Left empty
By the process.
In the uneasy
Peace
That exists
In the emptiness
Of time
Between
Fulfillment
And need,
I linger
With growing
Anxiousness
And desire
For more.
Timothy Vance Jackson
December 27, 2011
There comes a point,
Probably
Somewhere
Between
The third or fourth
Drink,
Where
The words
Either flow
Or come to a halt.
Somewhere,
In the middle
Of the fluid chaos,
There exists
A place
Where
Balance reigns-
Even if only for a moment
Between sips
And empty glasses.
Timothy Vance Jackson
December 8, 2011
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