All things break, with enough time nothing survives.
Today, all that will be tomorrow becomes dust —
the swallow, the rose, the stonehouse, the iron gate.
Within a moment’s pleasure something enters;
a foreign thought that the mind barricades.
In guarded sleep, dreams strengthen their resolve.
Time pursues, molecules distance themselves.
Signs outside offices or public bars will turn a different language.
Within the periphery, you catch glimpses.
Ever-present, it glides, mirrors, at times it leads aswell.
Under archways, over bridges,
by the warm light of an afternoon sun a cloistered feeling settles;
tyres hush the rain in traffic streams of uncanny happenstance.
There are no longer any plans.
We share all things, invisibly connected in darkness.
A thought reduces light, the tunnels dim.
But by relinquishing thought, and yet remaining conscious of it
an awakening may be hoped for in time.
The ruined millionaire, the gladdened poor, the healthy, the sick in their borrowed beds — none are immune, each is breakable from the fall.
© 2017 The Wasted Love Song
Image by: Paul Nylund via Unsplash