To go along with my ramblings on happiness and time (in just another canvas) here is a poem I wrote. It seems to have great wisdom and simplicity … so why can I not take my own advice? If I can write this I must understand it, I must believe it. Life is a paradox of mystery and clarity.
The Book of Time
The past is a story lost in time and
Who living might know what happened then?
Events seen now through a misted glass
May appear distorted, shaded by the tellers pen.
The future is a page still blank
Unwritten yet, and might not come to ought
For impending dooms can be re-writ
In time, and actions planned remain just thoughts
The present time is all we have
To play awhile; an open book that we can lend;
Life’s template to illuminate as best we might
And should; for all too soon we reach the end.