Here On Earth

We mark time—

Time marks us.

We stagger blindly

Weighted down

By our own pretending.

Our skin begins to fold into itself

And pieces of us turn.

Our mind sharpens

But only in its ability to lie to us.

We own time

We lie to ourselves.

We will make our moments count.

But not this moment.

Or the next.

Eventually we put the collection

Of lost moments

Into a box filled with things we will never wear,

That we will swear never belonged to us.

Those we love fall away:

The veil parts and yanks them through

And we are left to hold vigil.

We lose ourselves

In all we’ve lost.

We decay and lose,

And what we once saw brilliantly

Dulls and dims.

As we collapse under the weight of time

We wonder of ourselves:

How has time bested us?

We were different. We would not decay

Or rot. Or cease.

We Are, without end.

We will defy it, we pretend.

We sow our seeds and hope

They will take root

And grow.

In the fragile, finite beauty that we wrest

From the naked wreckage of our reality

For a moment We Are, still,

And we are more than dust

Though we are dust already.

And time marks us

And we mark time.