Tense: Future Past

I fear it puts my teeth on edge,

like scraping chalk, across the board,

the platitudes for everything,

script white on black -

book print reversed -

appeal to eyes like copy, ad,

rather than text of substance, writ.

To this curmudgeon, here we are

‘again’, as if with weary sigh,

but yet the past wiped clear from scene,

condemned to errors of the past,

forgot, replayed, mistake repeat,

the makings of tomorrow cede.

The day, its pass, is ruled by sun,

but not the month by length or name,

save here and now in tune with zones.

I’ve lived four days, January,

as lived for daze, December’s craze;

I wondered then, at Christmastide,

as wander now, through dope of mine,

if heart, soul, mind will keep control,

and if old lessons have been learned.