Eternity

Eternity—

What is eternity?

It is time—

It is simple existence.


Every action—

Every incident—

Every moment, every age—

Is eternal—

For the small moment,

In which it exists.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Outskirts of The Fair

When you visit the fair— Walk a bit further— Towards the outskirts. There you will see— A tent— Blue and red— Its conical ceiling reaching high Towards the stars. Push away the curtain and enter— Shadows— Only shadows— Crooked yellowing teeth, Long winding fingers,  And large eyes— They have—no mouths. They witness— never speak. Their hands rise— fingers too tangled to harm, so they direct, instead— forward. Where they wish you to go— Follow their directions, step inside, until the door is out of view. They will blind you— still, don't be afraid— venture further. Just a few steps— not too many— the shadows, when obeyed, will not hurt you— and yet in their eyes— an incredulous gleam. Now, on your right stands a lamp. A sharp scratch— and with a sulphuric stench it lights— And they disappear— afraid. Your sight—finally returned. The light reflects off the walls, Dousing the room in white. Once it settles, take a look around— the monsters are gone— nowhere to be found. Yet what looks ...
Read more

A Dreamer's Home

When I have my own house, My voice will permeate the walls, I will find a home within it. My eyes will paint— with colours of light— On the ceiling, My hopes and dreams. My cup on the counter, My clothes on the chair, My hair—tied up in a bun as I cook— My dishes in the sink, My favourite songs on the playlist. Dancing around the kitchen with a slice of cake, And my pillows thrown on the bed— I am unbarred. Crying without judgement, Laughing without thought, Wearing what I wish— I am unbarred. Words spill on my table— Pages upon pages— Of every thought, every wish— And dream— That ever passed my eye. A wooden swing and green curtains, Blue-stained windows and red cushions— Golden light—banishing the shadows— All seen— in my home. On the wood and ply, Where the warmth and cold— Are— As they have always been— These are my hopes, and dreams— A small home— A big life— None to pick me apart, None to cast a shadow— On this little life of mine— None to erase me. 
Read more

A Poet's immolation

 Swallow me whole— Turn my body to soil, and let the plants grow— May my soul be set free— Of this prison of thorns— Of these hearts— That cage— My spirit— I hope— I become a home— To those who wish for one— While I— Leave it all behind.
Read more