You only see what strikes you, only say what suits you,
in the moment.
Consciousness is there – compressed or stretched,
distracted or encoded –
a dimension of perception, to make us human or at least
alive, to something more than just a moment’s impact,
in subtle nuances of light and shade and chemical imbalance:
a gift we can’t explain, but may reciprocate,
managing our time that’s more and longer than a moment
but consists of nothing else.

As time flows past and through and changes us,
it may slide sinuously by, without a touch against the sides,
or feed and nourish us with fortune’s blessings,
but some, unlucky or at random, are stricken by events:
foul rocks submerged, dense vortices of force,
or trailing catching thickets, casting hooks and barbs
to capture those and leave them helpless, flayed and pinned,
unable to rejoin the flow, trapped repeating in a loop
of impenetrable circumstance and pain:
denied a future, excluded from a share of life.

While the endless river cycle, never twice the same,
reflects eternal verities, recurring,
in which no detail is unchanged; when
we live our lives in timeless moments, in depths and ripples,
in perceived progression, transformation, variation, changes –
some are fresh, some rotten, some are sound, some twisted –
but we still go on,
making footprints in the sand, footsteps in the river flow,
until we’re swept away;
leaving each our nameless contribution, a detail
accreting to the main.


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