quietly

sometimes it is as if and
never and later on always and
in the secret heart down the
bannister of sloppy ideals in
rare hours of bravery it is as
if it used to be and maybe
in a little while longer it is
self-composed and then in the
minutes or years that follow it is
as a cruel shadow some
fragment of a whole and
while it compels it is
complete and then it is
shattered and sometimes
it is as if it was
always
silent