Where Time Goes To Die

WHERE TIME GOES TO DIE

By Al Garcia

There is a place high above the valley, where whirling wisps of memories stroke the cusp of all tomorrows.  A place where the cold hand of time grasps the gossamer shawl that cloaks the frailty of my life, exposing the harshness and starkness of the world around me, while tears betray the loneliness that time has left behind.

There is a place where time goes to die.  A place where the wind cradles and then scatters shattered and broken dreams, and where a weak and defeated heart betrays the waning and fading passions that used to be.

To sit and feel the wind as it brushes wisps of hair against my face.  To hear the sound of nothingness, as it overwhelms my senses, and the significance of being.  To find myself alone again, betrayed by time, by love, by promises of tomorrows that will never be.  How cruel one moment in time can be.  How cold the world, when time takes away the fervor and the warmth that completed me, and fulfilled me. 

Where times goes to die, is where I sit and watch and wait for the fading light of day to bring the shadows of the night, and the solace, obscurity and quiet that they bring, to ease the emptiness and pain of loss.