A Tidal Beauty
In this river time unwinds. Meaningless, we drift further away from the emptiness in our lives. Together we hold till we know longer no why. Sinking down we look up as our lives play out like ragged silhouettes. If only we could return to a time when our eyes could see, the golden fields of our dreams.
In this place of nothing the loss is not wasted. It’s the aching in your heart of a memory so pure, one must decide to forget. Those who seek the remembrance are strung up, upon mundane skies, till rest. A context no longer of their own choosing. Perhaps a price, that is still not too steep.
The aspect that makes the beautiful so, is in its fragility. Anything more than a whisper and it becomes empty spaces for you and me.
Today I wonder what will become of Tomorrow. Solitary, he must now follow by the candlelight left behind. Left to trace the lines upon pages not entirely his own. Here is where he fell, broken, so close to the place that was to be their own. Torn, he struggles with the morning; remembering a time when she swore she would love him someday.
In the rush to become we lost sight of what we are.
What we could accomplish.
Life is a super-ordinate experience;
Individually we are bound to fail.
Happiness within a neutral cosmos is achieved together.
Don’t look but smile at the sun.
Frozen years have gone by without fading; always hoping by the light we know.
Gathering into sacred places; our reflections casting shadows.
Under the reigns of heaven, hand in hand; we become like melting snow.
What is it that you hope to find: the experiences that make up the sacred in our lives. Those feelings that tell us we’re ourselves. The idea that our past seems frozen upon the future. Or the hope that we'll find our home as we run in every other direction. Though we’re the author of our own story upon reading we find only strangers; it’s the notion that we cannot save an untitled poem simply with a name.
Adrian Lobb is a writer living in Colorado.