One more year ends, a new one starts.
They say that time flies.
It sure does. Fast. High.
I want it to land.
Walk with me.
Step by step, in a slow pace.
As a child, I flew with it, shared its wings, urged it on.
Go fast, go high!
Watch out for what you wish.
I got my will – when I gave it up.
That's of what time is made:
Grief of days locked in the past, hope for days to come, and fear of the day that is.
None more real, none less so.
You must be winged to bear it.
Time is a beast, too.
It chews on you.
Bit by bit, it eats you up.
Spits you out.
Leaves you in the waste, as it takes off to find new prey.
There is prey.
But then, time is joy as well.
That of a tale we love to be told.
From here to there, through a land that's not the same twice.
Still, we know it when we see it.
It's called life.
From birth to death, it would not be if there were no time for it.
So, we've got time.
And we want it.
More of it.
This is a syllable poem, by which I mean a poem composed only of one-syllable words. Check my website for more of them: stenudd.com