I woke up rife
with Morlock memories.
What a damnable time it was!
The days when I
was not a boy,
and not a man --
nothing for which anyone
had a good word.
Maybe I was a shadow:
wonky in shape.
I was that which
below the radar,
The final flower falls to the sidewalk.
It's damp and deformed, -n- sugared with sand.
It's gritty and pretty at the same time.
The ants are crawling around and across.
A faintly putrid scent must call to them.
They crave that little bit of death in food.
And tomorrow it'll be gone -- somehow -- gone.
Who knows where: swept up, carried, or wind-blown.
It will be gone, and branches will be bare.
Our lives are blobs that melt away.
You may not sense the drips.
It happens slowly; you may never
hear burbled blips.
You may not feel that it's lighter,
or that it's lost some girth.
Because you've shed it gently each
and every day since birth.
And when you feel the withering,
will you take it as loss?
A good loss like becoming lean --
a skimming of the dross?
Or like a vicious theft of the
best parts of one's being:
like time has grabbed the valuables
and taken to fleeing?
The melt will continue onward
until there is no more.
So, think yourself experience rich
though you are time poor.