I’m recovering, now, my morning zen,
and the magnetic field that aligns in
the back of my head and my neck, again
and again, when my emotions win
out, and I’m at peace with my condition—
a servant of the tension i express
when i face, with grace, my ambition,
and the oncoming day, minus the caress
I’m wont to feel, under the influence
of my soul mate. Each passing day, I add
to my accomplishments, making sense
of a universe that would make me feel bad,
a time traveler sent here to reshape
the future—a future that, for me, does not
exist, until the moment, left agape,
when I left. Since the past is what it ought
to be—do I go, alone, through the motions?
Or, in being sent here, did I convince
myself to send me back—taking the Huns,
and, from that point on, making them wince,
having become the change I wanted to
see? Every human decision starts
with me, and, in going back in time, through
the valley of the shadow, he departs
the country i forbid, now, having changed
my mind. Don’t I want, however, a piece
of the future that i, in truth, arranged,
having seen the light? It waits without cease,
in the ether, and the life of my mind.
I understand, then, that if I didn’t come
back, i wouldn’t be what i was designed
to be, an agent of good, a ransom
that He kept, in lieu of my arrival.
Do I miss my time—and the thought that I,
from that point, might’ve lived, in full,
a better life? But I answer His cry,
in being here, and so the nostalgia
I might feel, longing for the life I left,
becomes a general arrythmia,
the product of his eternal theft,
that I am duty bound to countermand.
So, like a Buddhist, I accept my lot,
a spot of religion going hand in hand
with the future that He, for me, once bought.