Born in the past, I’ll die in the future,
what is that to me?
All that exists, is now.
Yellow dandelions on green grass
stretch across the lawn, thunderheads
in the sky, this is real.
All that I have done is a memory,
all I will do is a guess.
Right now, with this keyboard.
Touch the button, the words disappear.
Sent out into the net.
They are no longer real.
Until someone says,”Hey, I liked your poem,”
does it become real again.
Unless it doesn’t. Nothing is real.