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