Playgrounds are pockets of gravity.
Adults and kids cross the event horizon into time's collapse.
Past and future, shaking hands, coexist in moments.
Though unaware of gravity's weight,
The kids bend and break to the molding.
And time folds forward.
There's the future frat kid, all unrestrained excitement,
Wielding a bag of chips and a large soda as a shield,
Practicing for future parties,
Practicing for future pain.
Over there are the best friends built in a glance.
Best friends who will be lost to the sound of crunching gravel.
And time folds backward.
Old, adult wounds rip observing the new:
Friends lost by chance, but forever chained to that moment,
Resurrected as gravity's waves crash into them.
Still, despite gravity's waves, knives, shards, hammers, and chisels,
Time's playground carries a needle and thread, too,
Like the best adults, ever ready to mend time's lacerations,
Ever ready to guide the gash onto its journey toward a scar.
YOU ARE READING
Before; After
PoesíaI'm posting this looking for some feedback. Any constructive criticism will be greatly appreciated. Writing has always provided me with solace, by helping me to sort through and frame my emotional experience. During one of the more difficult times...
