Time, Time; Be Mine

The punctuation mark

At the end of my childhood,

And the poignancy of the moment,

Each one a last,

The irreparable, irrevocable passage of time,

The arrow of which flows only forward,

Despite being but a stubbornly persistent illusion –

It’s an illusion, all right,

A delusion of grandeur,

The idea that time stops

When observed

Forming in your mind,

Fog-like,

Only it’s a mirage,

And you’re standing at sunrise,

Lost,

Watching the clouds converge

Up high, where the birds,

Having learnt the lesson Icarus never understood,

Do not dare fly.

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Published by

caitlincacciatore

A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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