He Said
Theadora Foster
weaved strands of stories and grey mist,
of light and darkness.
It’s my jewel, glistening,
treasure to keep guarded
in the soft place under my stomach.
I’m told it’s meaningful and
meaningless, an Absurdist conquest.
If the world is a clock
that doesn’t work,
and we are all its little hands,
tick-tocking to the wrong time,
I may as well roll the boulder
up the mountain, again –
if there’s no use for anything,
my actions may as well be mine.