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
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.




