By No Aid of Time

What’s in your name?
And how is it made?
Could it be replicated, or is it something
extraordinary, or something else, something yet of designation?

I’m trying to decide what makes it
special, a permanent stain impossible to erase

Beneath the lids of eyes, spelling out
the ever-expanding skies, the lights of stars
ingrained within the mind and replicates something as
mundane as your name.

Impossible ought it be,
pathetic even – yet it remains.

Fearful am I to keep this way,
unsure of how it plays into the folds of creation
of Present Yet to Be.

And yet I sit, stalled whenever A stranger
may share a character stroke same as yours,
caught spying on something as external as a phrase
others gave to command your state.

It’s preposterous. It’s typical.
A fault of mine enlarged by the aid of time
and a work less heart. But it’s mine to bear,
a wound still in disrepair.

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