Though Only a Blur, I See it Now

It's you in twenty years I think of,
I'm not certain, but concerned,
of what your life will feed on,
and what you will bring to light,
or stash to the darkness.

See, it's been twenty years,
and though I don't remember it all,
I know the feeling of being swung around,
and of a weight keeping me from rising,
like the paper under the sway,
of its paper weight.

I can not remember if I have asked,
for anything, but I know what you have called for,
that which I have faithfully echoed,
like a child repeating without meaning,
beckoning again and again to make up for the mystery.

The knocking of my bare knuckles,
still echo as I reach for a door,
though it may not be the best place,
I have found this neighborhood, a development,
and my feet have carried me seeking my own threshold.

I feel, and I do not feel the same,
about this strip of wood,
that would hold my dwelling,
whether from flooding out,
or caving to the world,
however I see it in the moment.