It is not a complaint, mind you that I confess I realized this morning it is probably too late. There simply is not time left. As if one could know how much time is left. What I know is I am reluctant to live without dalliance and daydreams, digressions of musings and wonderings that would be sacrificed for the magnum opus I have set myself to finish. Before it is too late, I must let go.
What is required just now is a funnel into which I pour all doubt and insight, imagination and injury, hope and hallelujahs, filter fine, boil for days, and hold to the light the essence of three chapters from said opus. Before it is too late, I could harvest the bits that can be digested, sustenance somewhere sausaged with discords and distractions and debates that are not this homeopathic soul of what I know, think and feel.
I could perhaps sketch the spare skeleton upon whose bones the true meat hangs, and let go any more attention to mere clothes.
While there is still time, maybe it is not too late for poetry.