Poem I: A Symphony on Time

A little background is necessary, to me at least, but you can find it at the bottom, let your own impression first be felt.


Time,
it is the beginning- it’s never-ending.
So unlike the clock- which resets after passing twelve,
The month, returning to day one-
Or year, reaching January yet again,
Time is infallible.
Flowing through our veins,
a part of every fiber.

The course of time never falters,
And continues to move on.
Yet we feel it’s not enough.
It’s too soon.
Something’s missing.
We’ve come too late.

Our time is limited.
It peeks and turns,
Takes a dive and soars.
It is questionable, laughable, and solemn.
Still, we are here-
Digging our fingers into the sand,
Clinging to each-other’s life,
With the unintentional hope:
We have the time to live.



A while back, a relative to my step-fathers family passed away quickly; the type of quick that is shocking and leaves you gasping for air as if having run a marathon after completing a lunch of twelve Big Macs. For, despite his aged years, this man was otherwise healthy and had even spent a delightful time in China. Ah, and I can hear the clicking in your heads, but please do not blame China, it wasn't their fault.
Indeed, this delightful man had spent his last conscious days meeting with his new-born grandchild and visiting with distant but beloved family members.
It went from a simple illness to the hospital a day later, passes three or four days and the family is left only to morn their loss to which there is no remedy. There is no Mary Shelly to rewrite this ending.
Thus a poem was asked of me to write in order to be read at the wake.
This poem was meant to be a bitter scrawling for the aggrieved, instead it turned into a single thought; to live.