What is left of our myth of happy times?
Times when there was no time at all.
Days bled,
and healed into nights.
Which blistered and ran
into more days,
without time.

We did not know of
clocks, death, sadness, loss,
or joy.
Fetal, yet kicking and screaming.

In and out of our bleeding days,
those were the happy times.
With no time at all we were birds that could fly
and turtles that could walk.

We had no need for this time
We had no stamp on our bleeding days.
Ends, endings, final moments, goodbyes,
all foreign.

Just days bleeding into nights,
into days,
into lives,
that would not end

Yet those happy times did.