Mine, Yours, Its, And Anything

Anything Anything here we do start
With anything, a match, and a silly old fart.

Or a grin and a tooth, or a man with a booth,
Just flying around for the sins for forsooth.

For the sake of all good, for the sake of true time.
For his hers and ours; for those that are mine.

For anything truly is dimensions and space.
But more than just that it’s your time and place.

But it’s candy and trains and automobiles.
And other strange things with plastic and wheels.

And anything sometimes is nothing at all,
Such as words or computers or a dark bathroom stall.

And paint and weird trees and pins and such,
And other things surely that aren’t quite as much.

It’s air and smells and it’s sense and it’s eyes.
It’s people that live out their sad little lies.

For anything starts and ends with a race.
But it’s one we all lose or all we all get first place.

It’s paper and pens and needles and docks.
It’s old people too and it’s smelly old socks.

It’s water and love and lust and some foes,
And history and books and all things untold.

And it’s tearing me and it’s poetry too.
It’s people that have nothing better to do.

Anything starts and ends with some ink.
It’s dishes and water and cloths in the sink.

It’s learning and talking and discussing old days.
It’s how people move and their culture and ways.

It’s blood in the water and sand in the air.
It’s some that never will try to not care.

It’s nuns and it’s fun and it’s dirty and clean.
And it’s sometimes a stupid old typing machine.

It’s sailing and stories and other such tales.
It’s beaches and fishes and big fat blue whales.

It’s food and it’s drink, it’s guitars and strings,
And so many other ubiquitous things.

It’s time on my hands; it’s the time slipping by.
It’s the truth that we live, and the truth that we die.

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