elegy to the fleeting self

your youth plays tricks on you:

on saturday mornings you rise with the sun

and gaze at your own reflection in the mirror,

marveling at how young and free you are;

at sixteen, seventy-eight years is forever.

but life is fleeting as the summer grass.

you see this as the years flow by,

and though time’s passing is nothing more to you

than a lazy river, you catch glimpses of

the horizon ahead, the waterfall awaiting you,

and year after year you watch others

drop over the edge, and you know the end

draws ever nearer, an unceasing approach.

sometimes you think the thump of your own

heartbeat is the marching drum of death.

still, you aren’t afraid of where the current

might take you; although you wonder if

it will hurt to crash your rowboat when the

stream plummets into the rocks, you

have no need to fear. you know the end.

so even though the monster looms over

your head, tongue lolling, drool pooling on

your homework, you ignore his beckoning

pants, plug your ears and jam out to

“beautiful” until the sun goes down and the

darkness surges over only to reveal the light.

note:

"beautiful" is my favorite song by phil wickham