mutiny

On some days it is the future: all has been
accomplished; everything needful has been said,
heard, done. It's peaceful here, in its own
post-apocalyptic way. Or some days it is the past:
that particular, peculiar stretch of time when all was known
without being told, imbibed from the atmosphere
like breathing, as easily and as unquestioningly.

But the present, the now, is trickier: the waiting
and wanting, watching and waiting; the words
ready to tumble out of my mind into my mouth,
each following the others weightlessly, without effort
into the world. They have been made and remade,
polished and perfected so that they can repeat themselves
endlessly into my ear. I do my best to muzzle them,
muscle them aside, but they are forceful
in their desire to be free.

The now is a time of uprising and anarchy,
and like all such times it waits on history to call it revolution
or merely a brief, failed rebellion, swiftly put down.