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Palimpsest of Passing
Written: November 15, 2025
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Yesterday, I felt free,
today, I am dressed the same way,
disappearing into the fog—
a shadow comes back,
But the hand can't hold it.
Time, that flexible harbinger,
flows through the dying hours.
It is a soothing calm, a hex—
sweet but deceptive.
We cling to transients with empathetic souls,
writing whims on a prism,
that fades from our minds by dawn.
Waves in the lagoon of dreams
spectacle after spectrum
a rubicund eolith per second—
divine, yet gone in a flash.
Even halcyon moments
endure the burden of change,
a lament, an aching yearning,
and an unadorned grace
woven in the cloth of life,
a triptych of loss,
longing, and lucent grace.
We writhe in the sky
threadbare with zeal
looking for a cure for things that don't last
but catharsis is endogenous—
a seraphic niche within the soul
where meliorism dwells
against the storm of forgetting.
So let us not abase our ache,
nor rake through the past
with burdened hands
let us wear our lassitude
akin a pavonine tiara—
a testament to mettle,
to the sacred sapidity
of being briefly,
beautifully alive.
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