Past and future
are parasitic in temperament,
Always seek to expand, grow and stretch
beyond reality,
beyond practical limits.
The poor ‘present’ is a casualty,
It’s like a pointed peak,--
small but high, lofty, uplifting
where the upslope of future
and the downslope of past meet,
intersect and forget their tension momentarily,
And that’s when we actually live.
In childhood, we’ve more of ‘present’
and hence we’re lively,
The youth’s a run for the future,
As we walk, we leave behind a trail
and future shrinks,
past stretches,
There comes a point
when all we’ve is the ‘past’
in our old bones, dimmed eyes,
Again we arrive
at a phase of dulled, dimmed present,
Just a grave to look forward to;
few surviving memories
in the tiny vanishing puddle of life,
mired in mud,--
a few fishes flapping sometimes,
The past meaningless
and the present
almost a curiosity about death.
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