That Which Does Not Waver

In this life it seems
We are given
Many precious objects and memories
Which we treasure
And love
All but those
We hold dear

It would seem
That what is precious
Does not remain
But rather traverses
The dunes of time
To be encountered and cherished
But never to be taken
As fixed

We should therefore seek
To place our roots in what remains
Taking pleasure in what comes when the harvest has arrived at last
But holding true to that which does not waver


In the End

In the end
It is not sharpened claws that tear us apart
Nor a flow of blood from our freshly torn flesh that draws the life from our bodies

It is not dagger teeth that consume us
Nor the acids of a churning stomach that digest our decaying forms

No we do not stagger forward from this life to the next thinking of the bodily pain that we endured
Any more than we wake each day once more looking instantly to the world for physical pleasure


What breaks us down
In the end
Is time
The slow onslaught of which beats against our presence in this world like drops from a leaking tap
Barely noticeable at first
Perhaps amusing or even calming in our earlier moments
Running down our surface and slowly falling away with little fanfare
Taking with it specks of dust and dirt
Or so it seems

As the procession continues
We grow more aware
Not only of the persistent repetition
But of what accumulates between the pulses
Of the value ascribed as such
And of how quickly and callously the passing waves are prone to wash whatever is cherished away
Of the immaterial but likewise irreplaceable treasures that are love and friendship
And the inexplicable and immutable impermanence thereof

With age and
– Fortune provided –
We learn to abide the steady stream
To appreciate the reliable nature of the mystery
Drinking in the cycles of loss and gain
Birth, death, and rebirth
Never truly understanding why or where from
But likewise seeing elements of an overarching schematic and grasping if only in the most minute manner
Purpose and place

In the end
Though it comes not in a flood
The waters wash free the last of our tethers
Taking with them at last fragments of all we are
Until there is nothing left to fall upon
And the void beneath consumes even time itself