(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.