Time
Time is a river.
Time is a tapestry.
Time is a mountain.
Time is a web.
Time is everything,
And it is nothing.
Time is a mystery,
And it is self evident.
Constantly flowing,
Without really knowing,
Why it does so,
Or where it is to go.
Threads we be,
Each of us,
That make up this tapestry,
Bound by fate all living things be.
Tall and forbidding,
Secrets hidden in its heights,
Few have seen,
Razor sharp and edges keen.
Individual strands of life,
Woven by unknown hands,
Some are caught by it,
While some are free.
A light in a dark place,
Reveals the truth,
A bottomless void,
Somewhere out in the depths of space.
Questions abound,
Without pause,
What be the reason?
What be the cause?
A book of answers,
Lies on the desk,
Wisdom be the key,
Let the creator worry bout the rest.
Time is passing,
Time is still,
Time is quick,
Time is slow.
The truth lies before you,
What will you do?
See things with newfound sight,
Or turn your back and walk off into the night.
posted by Anonymous @ 11:20 PM
1 comments
1 Comments:
Indeed, a mystery as well as self evident. And the upshot is to 'let the creator worry about that,' Truth! For all the good that worrying about it yourself does.
My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vision of the ever changing view
A wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold
Once, with chills both hot and cold running up and down my spine, I discovered that Carole King had written my essence, woven a tapestry of my life.
There came a man of fortune, a drifter passing by
He wore a torn and tattered cloth around his leathered hide
And a coat of many colors, yellow-green on either side
He move with some uncertainty, as if he didn't know
Just what he was there for, or where he ought to go
Once he reached for something golden hanging from a tree
And his hand come down empty
But I no longer write of building and weaving, I write of the inscrutable, hooded woman that holds the shears and rips out the threads.
Time is a web.
Out flew the web and floated wide. The mirror cracked from side to side. 'The curse has come upon me cried, the Lady of Shalott."
One thing always flows into another doesn't it? . . . "Constantly flowing, Without really knowing, why it does so, Or where it is to go . . ."
Indeed. Indeed.
Post a Comment
<< Home