The hours lend themselves

The hours lend themselves
away
never to be the same
again
or back.
That is our time
our making
our reality
put into our tiny shells.

I pray
to myself.
What lies without?

Wind blows past my face;
it's not even the same
wind that
moved to others.

Or is it?

The projection of life
into
clouds

all you get is
high.

Fear lends it self to the
search
or is that allowed?

I had reality or something
called that in my
pocket

giving bread to a brother
it must have fallen out.

We can make it!!
the same
as all
as always
as nothing

all explanations fall short of
you.

Because i am different?

Feelings are different.
Life
is on your back
always until ended.

The bigger
your self
the heavier your load.

My Father
has his life in his pocket
pictures 
cards
money...

The life on your back
is impossible
to look at.

Others must tell you.