the gloomy scenery
stretches out before me:
a winding path of life
lined by blossomed vines
that curl and die as seconds fly.

I do not dare to look back
at the shrinking vines,
nor think of the momentary nature
of life’s strawberry wine.

yet time persists, though I resist
to follow down the rabbit hole
where clear water in riverbeds,
the flowers and the tabby cats,
will turn to ash, to dust, to die.