Twelve Mintues to Day


Minutes from now, history will repeat itself.
Feelinngs and actions will be created, then brushed off to the past.
Time will stay a routine of sleep and wake - live and die.

But none of that matters.
Because its the memories that tell you the past is of importance, right?

Speaking on those regards then, if only I could just -
Go back one minute to re-speak the words spoken and re-live the despair I had just felt.
If I could only just rewind two years before, and warn myself of the future I've become.

Then three moments and four feelings later -
I would not be submerged in the escaping image of you.

Not spending five minutes to pity and victimize myself at the thought of losing the thought of you.
Six times have I faltered and struggled, at the very sight of you but even that would not matter.

How can numbers matter, when seven monthes and eight days have passed by without a concern in the world?
Since then, I've befriended apathy and disregarded nine - the month of your birthday
What ten and eleven equates to, I've yet to comprehend.

But I know that twelve minutes later, time will etch into history and strike a new day.
The x-th day of y-month in the year two-thousand z.

Still, nothing will change.
Not this firm conviction I have for you, or the naivety of my sheer, stubborn will.