We breathe less time in our lungs than a clock made of air,
yet Creation grants us enough to knock us over in our briefness, plenty more than we are capable of tolerating.
We can't stand like the forest, or the mountains, we topple in our brevity, trembling as we fall.

Our legs are not trunks, feet not roots, our bravery overshadowed by our frame's willfully quivering bark, less heartbeats than the moth's wings flutter toward the light, time our contrivance, age flouting the curves of our backs to rage at the dying of our own glimmer.

Our lives begin like comets bending their growling radiance toward Home then crash into one another as if destined to skip the celebration entirely.

We cry more than we laugh until our frames are deformed by the tears running ahead of our joy like an impatient brute briefly crashing into itself without familiarity.

However, when we pass by, we leave a sheen where we briefly were, and there's hope in that...

© 2016 Mark Richard Prime


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