Life, an infinite continuum
feeding on its own death,
and we, self glorified in its midst,
on knife's edge of infinity,
daydream reflections of time,
mirrored images that seem like two,
are only one wheel of life and mortality;
parallel realities whose paths cross
like wisps of wind...
Generations think they are new
yet we are all of one time -
like prose and poems written
in separate centuries, but
of the same struggle.
We fly in different directions
though toward the same destination,
while roses are more difficult,
more allusive to stop and smell.
Time is spent and lost on
rather than the minuscule wake
of a flotilla of leaves on the pond,
or the reflection of the sky beyond.
Beneath the leaves, the roots of lily pads
and the stare of a wary carp who looks
from his world as we do from ours.
Copyright © craig cornish | Year Posted 2019