Plans made even yesterday, or days or 

weeks before, now shadows and smudges 

on a vacant page.
If we knew what we believe was there
never would it have been erased.
      Even now, even later, our

      letters cannot be traced.

Intentions. Things forgotten, ignored and

not tended to. Or not bothered with.
Aspirations, at first, then nothing.
Unceremoniously irresolute and
abruptly unfinished. Incomplete.
Our lives often as such.

If we believed what we knew was there
wherever would our hope be placed?

       Is our later, in the now, still

       filled up with our disgrace? 

Why are we not able to offer ourselves 

the continued commitment required. 

Thoughts often as much. 

© 2026 j.g. lewis