The rain
hasn’t melted me,
the sun hasn’t
scorched me,
the snow
hasn’t frozen me,
the leaves
haven’t covered me.
Turn, Turn,
Turn,
and I’m
still here,
broken and
battered,
heart heavy
and soul worn.
Every Season
has it’s sharply
pointed
arrows.
That fly
faster and harder
every year
toward the heart.
We dip, we
dodge, we
defilade, we run, we rest,
we stop, we
catch our
breath.
We survive
our history,
and pretend
to prepare for
the future,
without knowing
what’s
really going to happen.
We know it
might rain,
or snow, be
sunny or cloudy,
chilly and
damp or dry and
gray. But
never really for sure.
Monuments to
the Id,
shrines to
the Ego,
our
bodies, our minds,
weathering
each storm.
Like some
forgotten statue,
an icon of
some unremembered
battle. Corroded,
molding, pointing
upwards,
defiant in time’s presence.
Still there.
Still here.
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