As I grow
the cage of time
shrinks. My years
expand, filling it.
More and more
the walls close in.
The only window
obscured by a blind,
my little view
is dim, shadowy,
larger vistas
unknown.
In youth, breathing deep
I spread like the branches
of a cedar, yet
with room to spare –
unaware then
of restraining walls.
Present reality
pierces:
a sword.
Almost
I impale myself …
but, pausing
I glimpse
from the corner of my eye
a jester playing a flute.
His song hints
that time
might be fluid.
What if the walls
are frail, soft
not fixed – if
stepping through
I find that time
is an ocean?
[Revised 11 June 2024. Earlier draft posted 1 April 2024.]
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