A Tittle On Timeline

Life is a flowing stream heading to a dumb past—a tittle on timeline—too brief for a whim, too fluid to fondle. Yet with an uncanny haste I flinch at horrors or wince at hurts. Can’t gel fleeting dreams that soon layer in memory’s folds, or litter like dry bones in the valley. Each moment, I dream afresh, preening the feathers mirrored in a mirage. All’s dream, dream, a passing dream of a morrow cuddle a bouquet of roses—the fruit sifted from pondering the essence of life. I’ve seen many sun’s; day and night ever speaking. I look for today, but find myself in limbo, in a swirl, hyped up by hope, yet clutching the wind and a slimy crag. Thus I follow the hollow tales about morrow with cautious hope, squinting as time taunts and recedes to a vanishing point. Life slips away mindlessly in bits till my sun sets in grey or gold. Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi January 5, 2019