Black Poetry : Pot of bones

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When is the time.?
A question or statement
Made by All
Through Ultimatums
Feelings of being on the ledge of love
Something done for outsiders
"I have a gift of balance" she says
As a tsunami passes like gas exhaust
My time is here
But
Evidently not there
Joining our arms through time
Creates lines followed
Without joints to make it happen
Survival becoming a pop up dream
Always setting me Aside
Just in time
For our manmade debris clumping nature
Joints once again saved on the table.
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