The Edge of Time
Come, old body, to the edge of time, And see the view from this old crone's rhyme Time stretches off as the foot would jog In four directions, though one's in fog. The Past, as you turn, and pant from the climb, Is loud with Drum, and Wail, and Chime. The Present, under the scrummy toes, Is swarming with purpose that sifts and flows. The Future is cast from the womb of Firenze But blurs at the end of the mind's short lense. The fourth direction for time to roll, is over the cliff, and into the Soul. For this you need to look afar You'll find it beyond the furthest star. Written February 3rd, 2002 © on Feb 03 2002 07:04 AM PST, Carole Dudley 0 • 13
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"Come, old body, to the edge of time,..."