In the Center


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.

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