Not Exactly
It was a pondering
That did not seem worthwhile
To waste, but not to spend
Time that would run out there,
For someone else to take,
And do with as they pleased.
Take it, waste it, lose it,
A rhythm of itself
That could not, would not stop,
To be taken over
By the infinity
Of a utopian.
The understanding flawed,
Faults on only one side,
Finally, an excuse
When Time felt right to leave
From the Wasting Station
Not exactly on time.
This poem is about:
My country
Our world