Slow Poem

I took.

I took my time.

I took my time to write.

Kind of.

From the moment of spark.

To.

Now.

8 hours forming.

Kind of,

It’s not over yet - as far as destiny has told me.

No premonition of doom.

Or euphoric blis.

Forming is a ruse.

As if I really gave it so much thought?

More like,

Now,

The spark gest a gentle flush of air,

Flame beneath words

At a simmer.

Like I said, it’s a slow poem.

Definitely not on the boil.

Low sodium,

And no spice.

Garnish it yourself, please,

As is the intention.

Trickle.

Slow bore into your mind

Squeezing out the rest

Yet compressed in by it too.

You.

I took.

I took your time.

I took your time to read.

I took our time as a gift.

A gift back to you.

I took.

I took my time. Your time.

Not together

In time.

But in space

Of present, future and the past.

I took.

I took your time.

I took.

I took my time.

Combined,

And equally not,

Forever held here.

A slow poem.