Time has a way of skimming
souls, exposing the raw
wracked and burdened
a way of humbling egos,
slowly withering to a self
barely recognizable
except when smiling
hulling like a plane,
thinly
surfacing a ship-wrecked
past of heart-laden words
laying upon rocks, forever
stranded
baring the wounded driver
careening down one way streets
that leads back to alleyways
of perpetual dead-endedness
the mermaids call, and as in old,
the sailors heed and are lead to doom,
desolation and despair,
Time has a way of tolling,
of moving you closer than farther
as you float to and fro,
of awakening you to the
potential of promise,
and as each day passes,
what ceases to be.
By Mary E. Lohan
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