the river kairotic.

November 22, 2014

You may be sick with nostalgia, though,
it’s peaceful here, in these wakes of mourned memories,
each moment becoming a bottled message,
I kiss my fingertips to bottletops,
then let them wash sweetly out to sea.
It’s my lot in life, darling,
to be the epiphany, a prophecy,
the point of no return,
the axis, an oracle,
when the tides come to turn-
just a lone muse left wandering the kairotic moments in time,
standing still on the shores between realms,
forging homes out of sunken helms.
I am destined as a ferryman,
escorting you loyally along the way,
to less reminiscent horizons,
so that you may find your final resting place,
but you cannot stop here, lest you become an echo, like me,
pausing too long at the mirrored impasse,
setting forever adrift within the pinch of an hourglass.

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