I remember forever summers, days of ocean depth
fathomless and rich with mysteries to explore,
submerged for eternities in the seeming vastness
spanning the gulf of Time called childhood.
I am not grey now, but know well it comes
faster and faster with each distracted moment:
like minnows, the days flash silver by,
almost nothing in my shallow tidepool weeks.
Is it merely aging perception, I wonder,
or does the changing of childish whimsy
shorten the coursing nature of each second
and send them scattering in schools?
Yet I find myself caught in waves again,
cresting and crashing into deeper currents
in moments so painful they stand outside
of Time, a sea unto themselves.
I cannot escape the fact the surf is seldom
the kind of joyous occasion one would wish,
but instead tempestuous storms stretching on,
forcing the mind to focus on the now.
But it is the constant presence of suffering
which offers meaning to the brighter shallows,
like waves rolling endlessly upon the beach,
leaving behind fragile, beautiful shells.
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