The end comes, eventually.
I struggle with that. Don’t you?
You will. But hear me out.
I dreamt once I was told
My age at my ending.
Later, when a terrible loss tore me in two,
The dream reminded me that,
Without an ending,
Living has little meaning.
Time is finite, so
Time is precious.
Facing this births the Authentic.
A fountain sprang
From the center of me.
Sometimes clear and cold,
Sometimes bitter, like the Dead Sea,
Sometimes a deep endless Pacific blue.
It is both whip and comfort.
It is a river for my journey.
It makes a shore to walk along.
Mere weeping makes less the
Depth of grief, yet
Time is a nurse, the bringer of all good.
In the center, a wellspring:
For a while longer.
