Into The Mystic

And things end, because they begin, and the seasons pass me by while I grow older, not necessarily bolder, because time is a circle that spins, and I chase it, no one wins this kind of race, round and round I go, I feel slow so I attempt to pace my self, or I may face myself, and I would rather not, because time slips through my hands as do my plans, I am a poem at midnight, refusing to let yesterday go or accept that what I feel is all I know, and yet life is not a cognitive affair, but a dance with myself on a planet that spins in outer space, and I’m anonymous without a face, waiting for the bus to bring me to the place I’m supposed to be, an adult version of me, a captain of a marvelous vessel, exploring everything, the sea and gravity and what it means to be and not to be in the same breath for as long as I can before death when the fog horn whistle blows and I sail into the mystic.