How can I not mourn the time,
its fleeting passages slipping through my fingers,
while I swipe my hands in thin air,
trying to capture but moments,
hold them close and imbibe their beauteous avail,
but elusive they are to my desperation,
once passed, the crumbs of memory console only,
so momentary, one dimensional.
In youth this focus trite and pointless,
exuberance the great magnifier of rapturous experience,
each moment a blissful rendition of joy or pain or a soul bereft,
and now each moment seen and appreciated,
is whisked away like a cinder spark, a flash in darkness,
lost to time, with barely a moment to conceive,
and I, feeling inept for the loss,
and wanting for the experience.
How age defines life,
segregates those wonderful notions of fantasy,
with those harsh truths gleaned from all the pain,
and in that understanding an irony of proportions,
old enough to see, and not young enough to do anything about it,
and a smile relents my furrowed brow, knowing,
for that is life, the cycle, the knowledge,
and though I groan about it, I am content.