Even Though

It was not long ago when I first wrote.

I still feel the ways that my young hands wavered.

Often times, the curved ink would seem quite base to me.

So I kept writing to one day make it straight.

Even though I never could.

For what is it to be if not in experience?

Would we ever grow tired of new memory?

I think not and it is decidedly so -

that I will only think of the 'morrow.

Even though my solemn mind is never sorrow.

Whence did the truth become so rigid?

To understand what we know to be reality.

To force that which you always knew would come.

But never truly knowing when.

I see it now,

looming over me.

Even though it is not there.

Author's Note

How did this poem make you feel?