Unminded seasons laid out.
Each fourth solely an overlay
Built up strength of certainty,
Time indiscernible doesn't shout,
or, as a lighthouse, warn you of the same rocks.
And Charybdis has lost her biting jaws
if so quiet she drags you round.
Circe, an invisible, charms with nothing
but holds in place a part of you.
He could watch the ocean's horizon,
but not move for the submerged reefs.
What was childhood but some immortal sample,
offered from gods to those too young.
As from no start, no end is seen,
but one enduring life.
A gift? Given? or thrust upon the inexperienced.
How cruel to have no ending, no drive or scheduled path.
An hour glass is less a timer as a stopwatch.
Life the race and I the runner.
The post is death, and after just respite.
Coleridge, the supra-poet, makes death life's greatest mead,
and as most concur as years go by, of death there is a need.
From womb to tomb, life has its course, a sprint,
a jog, a walk, and along it,
a million competitors marching from child to chalk.
Much like some unpursuable relay, life's a handing-baton game,
the runners from start face backwards, the first that do lose fame,
and as one turns to generate
life them will dissipate.