I had a story to be told;
It was mine, and the few others’
Who chose to be in it;
The story was me.
For the usurper that Time is,
She did not wrong me thus;
She was rather bountiful,
Now that I see the ebb.
My crumpled soul thrives yet;
That bothers me now.
Does it foresee the inevitable?
Does it regret?
Sure, it stood the Bountiful’s test,
And it did more than survive.
I’ll miss the poor soul
On the way….out.
I had a story to be told;
It was mine, and the few others’
Who chose to be in it;
The story was me.
Painstakingly, I had carved it
On the timeless sand.
Been trampled upon,
And then, admired.
I can see the Tide now:
Majestic, glorious, decisive;
Our eyes met….greeted with a smile;
Right on time.
Like countless other carvings
On the timeless sand,
There was my story
And then, it wasn’t;
Then I wasn’t.