Passenger Seat
by MYRYN VILLAFLOR
There’s a rush
between the many folds
of my flesh;
like a fast,
upbeat love song
in an afternoon ride.
-Never ending-
a lithe man inside,
clad in opportunities
and monotony of purpose,
yet, still I am
but a passerby.
Contented and consumed
by the passing world-
of flickering, fading
hints of its flight,
as father time
sits on my palm.
I am learning to exist:
half alive, half asleep
without a sweat in my stride
for someday-somehow
I will dwell like a sun,
dreaming under
headstone spires.
