Time

We begin as dust,

unseen and rarely felt,

glimmering atoms amidst a sea of the infinite.

-

Soon enough, we are flesh.

Innocence abundant, chaotic and unkempt but

shimmering,

a guiding light for all elders,

a spirit.

-

Over time, we grow

to be disgusted with ourselves,

to make mistakes that will stick with us,

to mark our world for better or worse.

-

Our glue lagoon begins to grow,

sticking to our feet,

attaching baggage to our backs.

We curate a life, in all its beauty and its ugliness,

and carry it with us,

a permanent home.

-

As we age, most things fade —

we lose our beauty, we lose our energy

but we gain in understanding

and knowledge of this world.

-

Eventually, we complete the circle,

becoming dust again as though nothing happened,

unnoticeable a few generations from now,

a blip on a timeline,

but a composition of worldly excellence,

a leading spirit in a hundred lives,

a piece of the puzzle missed and remembered.

-

They prepare your wooden grave

just outside the window,

and you wait through your sickness

to be embraced at last.

All of those mistakes we made

don’t seem to matter

anymore.