In the little death, I glide over the cartoon landscapes of chambers in my mind.
Night winks its starry orbs; mine yawn open, older but little wiser...
I untangle myself from the bed's winding sheets and glance in the mirror~ halfway expecting that golden girl I once was~ then stumble to the kitchen to make morning coffee, using water drawn from some lost fountain of her youth.
She is trapped in the past, unable to cross fixed lines time scribed upon my face. I'm unwilling artificially to color soft silver tresses Chronos curls around his scythe-callused fingers.
If time heals all things, then why does he ravage me?
A legacy of wisdom leads far from my beginnings.
My nature, purpose and identity, I remember to forget~ become blurred, temporal memories in all my visions of eternity.
Comments (3)
unable to cross fixed lines
time scribed upon my face."
Artistic lines from a passionate mind. Bravo!