Gold Dust

 

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He caught my tears

And on the palm of his hand blew softly

And they turned into spiralling flecks of gold dust.

But dust, even golden, is not solid.

It is transient, fleeting,

Dispersed into the air with a breath.

Such is life.

Carpe diem and blah.

But Horace has a point.

The present is fleeting when

With only a second the present becomes past

Just as my tears metamorphose into dust

And blow away in a golden cloud

So do ashes.

But before bones dissolve, a life must be lived -

And lived well.

He caught my tears

And in so doing he caught me

And together we will catch the moment.

A blink of an eye, and life goes by,

No use clinging onto it.

It is like the water

That for no one

Stops draining from cupped hands.

But here’s the relativistic puzzle…

Your second is my eternity

Because out of sight you fly too fast for us to see.

And if time can speed up and slow down

Why can’t it slow for me?

Why can’t the second stretch to a minute, an hour, a year?

For when we study those who came before us

They thought the same.

For them, the second within a second became past,

Around them lingered dreams and fears,

Someone caught their tears - caught them.

But before they knew it,

They too became ash,

Like my tears.

And like them

I will one day turn to dust

And float away.