With a precision that time never granted
Our tiny, unlived past, not aware
Of a parallel world in which clouds
Are but white puffs of happiness
With each day, we shed the dead life
Of an yesterday and yet something
Lived on from two childhoods
Moments of loneliness molding
Whole lifetimes, it seems bereft
Of the resurrection of death
And yet, here and now when I died
In your arms again, my birth
Is enshrined in that sacred space
Where time wraps around itself and
Around every regret, each loss and
Spirals into a wormhole
of an altogether
new baby universe
my friend, farewell.
No comments:
Post a Comment