When is too late?
Does the sun rise warm
on the face of the blind?
Do the deaf hear
the longing in a resolved chord?
Is a ravaged memory
consumed by the absence of thought?
A body ripens until
it frightens the young.
Wrinkled hands once
caressed alert skin
spreading ecstasy
in wide arcs.
Who owns these finite moments
immersed in the infinite?
Swept into the union
of the ocean
time has forever
lost what is tardy.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 11:17 AM UTC
When is too late?
Does the sun rise warm
on the face of the blind?
Do the deaf hear
the longing in a resolved chord?
Is a ravaged memory
consumed by the absence of thought?
A body ripens until
it frightens the young.
Wrinkled hands once
caressed alert skin
spreading ecstasy
in wide arcs.
Who owns these finite moments
immersed in the infinite?
Swept into the union
of the ocean
time has forever
lost what is tardy.
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