The Mural of Yesterday
The traces of the past
no longer shadow me
as much as they did —
it appears as if the structures,
that held them up
have evanesced —
blending far too well,
with the twilight,
signaling an end.
A grim tempest
blurring all around —
reducing what once was rosy,
brimming with a fantastical,
almost impossible spirit
of laughter and hope,
into a standstill —
a finished canvas
whose edges rolled up,
gaining traction
with each step forward.
I looked back
to refresh my memory
and saw nothing —
not a wisp of hope
not the spark of opportunity
not the fallacy of bringing to
life what was,
but a stone-cold dead end —
that could never be brought to light
by the brightest optimism,
the wildest creativity
or the most deluded dream.
The world stood still,
as did I,
but this time,
I wasn’t looking ahead
but at my feet,
as they ground me into the present,
into reality
reminding me that this is all that counts —
the thin sliver between what was
and what is, lies here.
At this very moment,
in this exact breath,
that slips between my fingers
much like the breath that leaves my body —
and before I could look up again,
the moment was gone,
escaping the now,
into the whirlwind of the past
sucked up like a vacuum
robbing me of a few seconds more.
The fragility of the now
can only be realized in this breath
in this moment
in the reality of the present —
to experience it is bliss
to feel it, unreal
to relive it, however —
impossible.
As the moments pile up,
remember to catch yourself,
to look at your feet
and stop —
to revel —
at how beautiful it is
to live like this.
