Empty Vessel
Jan 26 2014


When everything was possible
and there was all the time in the world.

When you were newly born,
and older brothers
tried hard to ignore
the whole calamity.
When grandmothers cooed
and dads looked confused,
and bachelor uncles
stiffly cradled you,
an empty vessel
for the many dreams, and hopes
they had, themselves
let go of.

In the relay race
of generations
the baton had been handed off.

Which is not so much a sprint

as a steady slog,

a meandering track

circling back on itself.

When soon

they'll be dropping back, one-by-one

slow to a walk

eventually stop,

hands on knees, breathing hard.

As you go running on
alone.

When even you will tire.
And come to realize

that no one who knew
the youthful you

still exists;

so no one knows you, anymore
if anyone ever did.
As if one could truly know

anyone else.

And realize

you are the custodian of memory;
so when you forget
there will be no one left to ask
what actually happened
or if.
 

And realize
you did not live up

to their impossible hopes,
disappointed even yours.

When the past will exist
all at once,
because chronology
is a mere formality
an old man is allowed to say the hell with.

Like everything else
that seemed so important

in head-long life,
to the restive youth, the man in his prime.
If only he had been told, back then
were such a terrible
waste of time.