Literature
Time
Time ebbs, leaving the past behind,
as the falling tide leaves an empty beach.
Only our crumbling relics remain,
those moments, now sea-changed, when hope
and intention might have coalesced.
Or should I change
the metaphor? Time is a ravening demon,
it swallows all in its indifferently rapacious
maw. It leaves no trace
of images and dreams once close encased
in the brittle, discarded skull.
Time has fullness, when its harvests
are ripe, yet always plenty decays,
the mighty sun gutters, all that
remains is endless night.