Time (a poem)

(I wrote this as my submission to the Muses at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.)

By moon’s silver glow

we hold fast to those

golden threads we spin and cast

out to drag the past behind us.

Time moves on yet here we are

looking back at what follows behind,

caught in the siren song

of what could have been.

“Let go,” Time whispers and folds her hand

over ours as she smiles and we ache

with weariness yet stubbornly cling

to what we know.

“Let go,” she demands and we’re scared

of the insistant command but we listen

and the golden threads slip away into the dark

ocean of forgetfulness.

“Come,” she says and holds her arms

out to us and the moon dances its joy

on the black waves of the past when

we move forward under the cover of Time.