Time makes liars of us all,
’tis as sure as the incoming tides, which do the shoreline taunt.
The ebbing flow of good intentions,
drift out to a sea of reckless abandon.
Life’s screenplay contains no stage directions,
and so we do forget our lines,
only to realise when we’re out of time.
I take the memory of myself, and hang it out to dry,
yet still the creases do remain,
and no salvation can I buy.
I dance a dance with my future self,
a waltz I ought to know,
yet I always fall one step behind,
and worry that it shows.
I throw a pebble out to sea,
I sit and watch it go,
yet the traitorous tide brings it back to me,
upon its steady flow.
I write my fears and worries down,
along with all my pain,
I set aside an hour or two,
and make a paper plane.
I throw towards the horizon,
watch it eaten by the setting sun,
yet its contents are etched upon my mind,
and from that I cannot run.