By David Roth
© 9th November, 2004
The mists of time swirl endlessly above my head,
A never ending maelstrom of color, sound, scent and taste,
A non-stop cavalcade of images and inferences
Dancing the whisper thin line between what is, and was, and might have been.
A woefully unreliable parchment of the history of my life
That vacillates teasingly and unpredictably between the paths I have walked
And the outcomes of things I might have done
A fury of confusion blended with soothing calm.
They bombard my senses with unrelenting motivation,
Do the mists of time, toying and testing,
Drawing together a miasma of confusion
Between those things I know with certainty, and those I wish I had known,
Flashes of light, rolling waves of sound, deft and gentle clouds of memory,
The mists of time surround me with their sensuous tentacles
Reaching into the recesses of my mind
Drawing out the dreams and fantasies of my childhood.
And whether the diaphanous blanket of remembered things is real,
Or simply the painful rekindling of the smoke of what might have been,
It matters not.
For the mists of time are eternal, and in my eternity,
they both haunt and taunt me.
