Life surges like a spring of water,
Babbling over stones,
As forget-me-nots and grasses
Bow and rise,
Painting luscious meadows
With green brushstrokes.

The ocean's breath transforms
Into splashes of lace at the shoreline,
Each a small kiss, briefly alive,
As waves thunder against rocks,
Eroding centuries in seconds,
While sculpting the ancient earth.

Memories drift by,
Stained with sunset,
A brief melancholic moment
Alighting on my fingertips
Before surrendering to the wind.

Night spills its ink across the sky
And stars pierce through,
Offering glimmers of hope
As suns continue to shine
Through the darkness.

©️Lizzie Bevis

Your outgrown shadow still follows you faithfully, with due silence; you still stand hesitantly, putting one foot after the other, pondering over the paraphernalia of your wasteful, shipwrecked life, because the ethereal telephone voice has frozen into a silence; the mill wheels of Time are slowly grinding you down, just like anyone else who was not lazy to scrape up some chestnuts for himself first.

Between stifled reproaches, you still excuse yourself with your childish naivety, you. what haven't you done for this, or for that vile, nothing promise. Confrontation is in many cases unavoidable; not only in the showcase of exhibitionist superficiality - but rather in the depths of spiritual immersion, because it reflects the grotesque-nonsense Present.

The unspoken truth grows inside you, consumed, which you deliberately keep to yourself so that you won't be fired or advised to leave one day. - Inside, it would have been better if you had lined yourself with patience, so that you could have faced the petty weaknesses of others more boldly. You are standing in front of gates locked with a hammer-heavy key, but you have already passed forty years, and you can no longer turn back at will to change what you thought could be changed; because you tremble inside like overstretched strings, and you are rather just naively and childishly ashamed of yourself, you cannot protest, since the permanent, corrosive dark river of bitterness flows through your overworked veins.

And no matter how firmly you stand on the foundations of your selfish protest that you believed to be stable, you remain alone, so that you don't have to deny yourself endlessly again!

maybe it is tragedy
maybe it is fate
but till Time itself bleeds as sacrifice
it is us
who must pay
with the debt of life