We grow nostalgic as our arms wither
And our sight recedes into the past
The golden years cometh
Some reward for living
Through a whirlwind of circumstance
That appear in sequence as only a prequel, propeller
To our understanding.
I believe I should sit on the mountain top
With my gift of wings bestowed
Sight acutely measured by deed
Instead I deny the years resting upon a cushioned pedestal
Of no one’s choosing – fate, destiny, reaping the rewards
Walking the labyrinth minimizing every step
And glowing in an apparition out of step.
It’s strange that the very earth you stand upon
Is hiding secrets, your secrets, your vision
The trap door is covered in moss
And a one dimensional understanding
That the universe exists in frames
The film spinning at an unbelievable speed
Through the eye piece of knowledge.
Sit on the porch with apple in hand
Squinting sceptically at passer-by’s
Who represent the future
Hopefully believers in preservation
Reverence and a keen instinct of the womb
As earth moves through the galaxies
The shadow grows at an amazing speed of thought
Into the proverbial unknown reclusive orb of our destiny.
You can find me on the poetry forum
Conversation Starters (i.e. what you'd like to do on a first date...)
Not looking to date but finding others who write poetry :)