Time’s Anvil Awakening
by Odin Roark

Short-sightedness knows no ally.
its focus blind to willing aid.

Still…

How we enjoy picturing that which isn’t there.
the “what if” often prescribed to dreams,
but made real by denial’s insistence,
relegating simple innocence to the shadows
where hampered discovery awaits…

Awaits.

Awaits.

Who willingly we soak ourselves
beneath the rainbow waterfall,
drenching ourselves with vicarious beauty
not ours by ownership.
Not everyone’s by default.

Such an awash of delusion,
roiling upon our survival
over our desire,
drowning with our self-imposed defeat,
remaining unknowingly stillborn.

Our unknown nemesis creating current
beneath the foam and froth of cosmic archives,
where nature’s ancient warnings,
man’s embryonic shortcomings
enjoins chronic ignorance…
until it doesn’t.

The fortunate few wake up,
refusing to drown
in multicolored wakes of chimerism.

We surface from ocean’s horizon,
find reality,
content ourselves as self-sufficient islands
surrounded by life’s checks and balances,
knowing ebbs and tides of change,
nature’s way of emptying tributaries
many call experience,
others, missed opportunity.

We…

Through it all,
honesty,
patience,
time
awaits.

Experience is like a hammer in freeze-frame,
poised high above the anvil,
knowing its dropping
induces a forever-footprint of who we are,
not who or what we might think we are.