I’ll take these six months, empty, wasted,
Void of meaning or production
And document them here

I’ll take six months and string along a narrative
of fantasy and fiction
of hesitance and fear

I’ll take six months that never were and hold them
In the palm of my outstretched hand
I’ll observe their insignificance

For how could six months, undocumented
Unworthy of speech or remembrance
Be worth one breath today?

How could six months that in their course meant nothing
Now mean everything and
Force you to your knees?

For looking back, six months passed so quickly
Looking back, they are there but out of reach
Like the feather floating wistfully away

And what you’ve learned in those six months is of no value
Until you find yourself grasping at a memory
Longing for empty vessels of the past

And so I’ll take this these months, empty, wasted
Void of meaning or production
And document them here.