Poems from long ago
written in the past
where the future wasn’t ever
and time would not yet last
Being is becoming
and never not yet when
walking on dark trails with shadows
echoes came to pass
Silence was a river
of forever always flowing
with each brief portrait of creation
the Almighty always knowing
Within that hall of mirrors
galaxies lonely seeming
give moments to softly think about
why it has some meaning.
