Image by Pam Patterson from Pixabay

The Final Passage

Time pulls at the edges of things.
Time is a blade.
We are a million tiny ripples in the fabric.
Humanity ebbs and flows.
We are its constant state of motion.

I can see it fall away in layers at night,
the darkness so heavy,
it presses down on me.
Eyes closed,
…….mind cracked open.

It is terrifying to behold;
the world laid bare,
unmade.
A black hole affair.

I wait for it, that secret release,
the vision of me balanced along
that cold metal of time.
A droplet.
A stitch, now cut.

Why must we dash ourselves
against time
and pray not to be ripped apart,
to not become those edges
splayed away?

There is no answer in these bones,
laid among the sand.
A cage no longer.
Remnants of anatomy at war,
stripped by time’s cruel passage.
My, how its metal tongue
would lick
that white wilderness.

Time is how the universe
measures punishment,
time is how we die.

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Hope Ramotar

Hope is an aspiring poet with a passion for story telling. She uses poetry as medium for self expression and catharsis. She is based in Georgetown, Guyana.