When will you stop
Though charcoal clouds smudge the horizon
And lumber closer,
You hop through time
in search of lightning and hail.
You grope through grass,
searching by moonlight,
for the lost crumbs of missing children.
Even in the morning dew
are echoes of torrents to you.
Always hungry, ever seeking
For the season's latest something:
Flocks of cotton candy birds
Or crystal flasks of stardust
And other baubles of whimsy,
All to gouge out the malaise eating at you -
To chase the ghosts of yesteryear,
The specter of youth's potential,
To when life still held meaning -
And to elude the grasp of Despair.
For a floating spot of sand
On this ocean of transient stars,
You wish and wail,
Though envy does not become you.
Storms do not chase other storms,
Nor do they compete.
So spin your tears into silk.
Weave them into a tapestry.
Look up and heed your calling,
You forget that you are a king.
The errant time traveller's note to self