Heraclitus
There’s nothing like the drop after the high.
The peak I stood
on last night is now sand.
My feet sink into it up to the thigh
And then I’m
swimming in the Rio Grande
Of Time, that rolls me from Mount Yesterday
Into Tomorrow,
leaving not a sliver
To stand on—for the stage of last night’s play
Is always washed
away by morning’s river.
And even when I don’t feel like I’m moving
And take a stand
somewhere, or hold my ground,
It turns out that the point I’m really proving
Is where I’ve been
must yield to where I’m bound.
I cling for
life to yesterday. It shatters.
The past is
drowned. Only the current matters.
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