Monday, October 19, 2009


Time is a river, sea-bound as all rivers are
A deep, dark current that fain would drown
Our bright birthright, Wordsworth’s star.

Helpless – we are dust caught in its course
We ponder where once we were
But can’t go back: the die is cast, the script rehearsed.

Can only remember, can only feel
And the pain of the memory
Is sometimes the only proof that it was ever
Truly real.

1 comment:

Chase March said...


That's a sad verse. But it's poetic and works. Good job!