I resent the passive cruelty of time
how it strips away our moments
pushing us into the unprotected center.
Myth offers no comfort
with its false narrative
There's no past for me, no future
It's all ghosts.
The moon lends itself well
to fictions of the mind
and night and day and death,
I doubt the sky mourns the sunset
or the Earth dwells on melting snow
or spring laments those buds
taken too soon by a late frost.
We're cursed to dwell
on the strange permanence
of our desires.