Reflections

A poem

Time is ticking; the cuckoo clock chimes, counting down the days until the blessings of heaven, countering aging with the dawn of new light, you worry about the end of days; a prolific attachment, as if delicate papers are stitched together in binders.

The façade wears off after a month of contemplation, fade as humanity usurps violets in the sun, basking in the sun just to say hello, we often face our own unseasoned selves.

Hyacinth grows by the arbor, as young seals swim in concentric circles, greeting travelers by the ocean, deep in magnitude, as is the bride of concentration.

Often in life, we forget, that we are garnished in norms from the beginning, burned to a crisp, oil in the pan is burning, yellow daisies adorn a difficult road ahead.

When we are led by emotion, we may make unpredictable mistakes, yet the math doesn’t add up, life appears odd, for we have not taken into account the mass of joviality.

Clarity in the diver, delivering the plight of humanity, crisscrossed are the wires of living off the grid, one may dream about self-sustainment, yet unable to give up comfort and luxury, nevertheless.

They say that consistency is the key to life, paddling for victory in the hot sun, one wonders whether it was ever really worth it, sacrifices made for the plight of the living.

Yet, it is that we may be confused, tilted wayside towards comfort and repression, the oblong pattern of sacred geometrics, grinding their way to the bottom of the sea.

In fashion, the prey becomes the victim, longing for a way back home, patterns emerging towards self-indemnification.

In the late night, shadows are lurking, beckoning us to move in the darkness, as we do under the moon’s eclipse, times stands still as we avoid piercing delicate fragments of the self.

In identifying with the past, one often misses the unfolding of the future, left untrained the mind often wanders, as wonders of the eighth world.

Showers in spring are clearing the plight of winter, just as fall gives way to changing leaves of color, we may not give a damn about the post-mortem, slightly increasing our shadow in the illuminated sky.

If power through force identifies as attainment, understanding for the sake of sanity, provoked by the sounds of the buffers of precipitation, molded by showers as we grow in age.

When it’s time for us, generosity comes forth as we were placid, adjusting to life, the receiver is lifted and one speaks eloquently, then.

Before anything is attributed, sparkling sun in the lake’s reflection, Man becomes fulfilled as layers strip from their ego, grasping to silence in the busy modern world.

Anna Rozwadowska 2023