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He’d grown old, and, growing old,
he’d come to face the truth of endings.
It was not a truth he’d sought,
he was surely seeking something else,
but, on a day as ordinary as any other,
he turned a corner and there it was.

There should have been no surprise
he’d found, after all, old news.
There is no other story told.
It is why the robins tend their young,
the frogs sing to the moon,
the oak tree gives its acorns to the squirrels.

Yet it is a revelation each must face
in his own time and way;
not as an idea,
to be examined only with the mind,
turned this way and that,
objectified into irrelevance.

No, this truth enters at the gut,
rises up the spine,
spreads through each cell,
until it finally reaches the brain
too deep set, too visceral
to be rationalized away.

And, so, he stood there
immobilized, as if hypnotized
by the true meaning of “time”;
a word he’d always used
without thinking  it applied
to him.

Now he knew
what they were seeking,
those heroes in the ancient songs,
was not the princess to be wed,
the magic harp,
nor even the shining jewel.

Odysseus, Aladdin, and the rest
sought the gods’ most precious gift,
not the fire Prometheus bought so dear,
but immortality, the gift of exemption
from relentless time, that even gods,
it seems, have never really found.


4 Responses

  1. That was great.

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