One True Thing

I yearn for one safe place

that flames cannot consume,

nor life's betrayals erode,

for like all whose feet

are made of clay,

I am hunted

in my waking hours

(and in the inky hush of night)

by Time:

immeasurable

relentless

in a race that cannot be won,

and will end in a winding sheet.

But though my body bends

and mind breaks,

still I gather pebbles

and pile them on the shore.

Each one is a story,

a little myth,

a fable:

important

Because although I
pay my dues,
chase the shadows,
collect my prizes

and display them upon the shelf just so,

it is only the story that matters,
and tales are all I have.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings.