Just An Intermission

It's measured path meanders through our lives,
and in its wake is nothing but destruction …
and pain … and all the woes of wise men … all the
heartache of mothers … so all the wizened artifacts
once proudly displayed, are now laid bare to it.

The seagulls cry, raucous and extreme,
echoes across the deserted sandy scene
and save for the lapping waves is all that’s heard.
Water retreating from muddy smothered soil,
offers no harbour for a Dove … this revolution.

Rounded rocks … ground to infinite dust,
beneath skies of measureless dimension …
compute its passage in some algorithmic way.
And in the frozen depths of places yet unseen
are rainbows of its anticipated degradation.

When we are beyond its 'uncelestial' grasp …
we're borne as dandelion seeds on air,
uncontrolled by its cold, embittered hands …
and have at last the measure of it;
are ourselves unlimited and never ending ...

… but time awaits us still.