Continuum

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 the insignificant, 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.