We exist in a constant state of change. Any attempt to avert or subvert will only result in the same or another change, much like a single individual and their attempts to divert the sea. No matter the effort, no matter the expenditure, no matter the time, it continues. There is no such thing as a constant. Please enjoy the poem, I think you’ll like this one.
Those Deserted Places
A diary,
worn and faded,
old and tarnished,
its mothballed pages
and belabored words
bely importance lost to time.
That one whose thoughts lived between the covers,
in the binding,
and at the margins
now withered and old.
Closer now to dust than bone.
A child then,
so pure and true,
alive and well,
ancient now,
so cold and blue.
Those feelings
and those motivations
now part of the sand
that covers this land.
What secrets might be found in the dunes?