Rome was built in a day.
Less.
An hour, a minute, a second.
An instant.
It wasn't, then was.
Like all things, like you.
An infinite gulf between being and not,
breached without moment.
A letter,
once written,
is never delivered
until it arrives
at your doorstep.
Its seal not set
by sigil in wax,
but time.
The span of an instant.
A life
once begun
is ending already.
Though second by second,
we desperately
hold on,
drag our feet,
and delay,
fight,
and we just want...
I just want...
we just want to, I don't want to
stay or go.
Paths trip down,
roads that cross over,
step by step,
break them,
halve them up,
stir up,
the inchoate masses,
the neverthelesses,
the might have beens,
the I'd never do thats,
the tears in the rain.
It's all just a treadmill.
It's all going to fade.
One moment you'll be,
the next moment you won't.
No need for fanfare,
there'll be no parade.
And in that hour,
Iike cash on delivery,
consider, that instant,
the postage as paid.
Photo by Dario Veronesi on Unsplash
