We swoop down,
dip our appendages in the waters.
Some feel a chill down the
spine,
some feel the warmth,
some feel the viscosity of red
and the carnage,
some feel the salt of the old bones
lying on the ocean floor,
Some feel the lump in their throat,
Some feel the twisted knot in their stomach,
some feel the gravity of existence
drawing them in,
some feel the music,
some feel the symphony,
some feel the rhythm
from the beginning of time itself.
We are not the originals.
None of us are.
These paths were trodden
by millions before
like crabs - the color of sunset,
scuttling on glistening shores.
The yesterdays
sipped from those streams,
sat on those sun-warmed rocks,
slept beneath charred trees of an
old forest fire,
and stared at an indifferent fragment
of the Milky Way.
We are not the originals.
It's a burden
far too heavy
to bear.
Accept
we are perched on shoulders
of giants,
reliving those moments,
those ideas,
those passions
just one more time.
From such vantage point
I could see
the many before,
the many after,
from the beginning of time
to the final hush.
