“Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.” – Marcus Aurelius
My hand touches yours
as we glide on the bed of clouds.
We don’t quite know where we are
how near or how far,
but the sky, oh so broad,
we don’t mind being lost.
What if we became an ethereal gleam
or a feather of a wing,
why not traverse the world
on the breath of wind?
Swim in the sea without periphery,
without limits become all living being,
with angel mist in our hair
turning into an hourglass silhouette
of perennial soul,
slivers of hope and
endlessly passing sand.
By Sharka Waite