Thursday, October 03, 2013

What's left bhind

We plough through the placid waters of time
bow-sharp into the blank-canvass sea of occasion.
We part and sunder,
plundering possibilities
with selfish presence
and grateful ignorance.
We face and ride the wave of opportunity
or bruise from amidship ambush
when we veil our eyes.
Nothing stands still
in our daily dalliance with time.

In our wake,
disturbed and turbulent,
eddies of happenstance,
in mobile peculiarity,
splash and kiss
their embrace.

And that moment is gone,
trailing away,
the distance
the placid waters
of a different time.
Written upon
by our oars.

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