Stationary and visible, chewing on my time.
It tastes like licorice and smells of burning autumn leaf piles.
I've been told there's a limit, with which the flavor will dissipate
and turn stale like an excessively chewed piece of gum.
I chew and chew, unable to swallow,
hoping for a freeze frame or a rewind button.
All things change, all things face the promise of ruin and renewal.
I tense and crouch, bracing myself for time like a fierce animal, ready for this pivotal fight.
I feel the long wave rising and breathing, aching to stretch and collide with my shore.
I look up, a threatening shadow cast upon my face, too much like a quiet night.
This is my time. I don’t want it yet, but it’s unstoppable, so I might as well swallow my screams
and rush in with my own current.
© Morgan Graham July 8, 2011