Between the memories of a twilight just past,
and the breaking of the zenith with holy light,
hangs an old child inverted,
suspended on a thread black as unholy night.
She wonders, she ponders,
she reminisces, she thinks.
She laments, she cries,
she laughs, lucidly she sinks.
The ground below turned,
as the tide of time wills it.
While in her free-float she waited,
unaware of all earlthy business.
Things and People come,
Things and People go.
Was it really so different,
from what those awake know?
And Realization dawns,
in the stead of Golden Eye this morning,
just over the valleys it flew,
just under the hills it was soaring.
An arrow of inner thought,
whipping through the dark,
severed the thread,
and let her fall.
Between this one dream,
and the future beyond her shut eyes,
sleeps an old child, almost aware,
that time shall pass, time shall fly.
DT.
