Innate Senescence

Flow through me sands of time. Connect these weary joints of mine like constellations in the open heavens. Flow in me and fill me with strength. Flow through me and strip me of memory, of love, of pain. Weave my cycle of life in every direction like endless rows of grain that grow, wither, and sprout again to ripen in their season on a back country road. Who knows where we’ll go? Like a doe in the dark you are silent but wary. Like a lost fawn in your fields, I’m alone. Hold me, dear time. Though your chalice of age may be bitter, I drink. Your love tastes warm like the sunlight that wrinkles my skin. Begin now, or before, or never, it’s fine. With you I am safe. Like the inside of this stick I keep breathing, I tell myself that my needing for you is within my control. But even I don’t believe me. Don’t leave me. Let your roots and my own intertwine like the grandest of oaks in the mightiest woods. Your harmony, balance, and nature complete me. Draw me in. Allow me to see your true nature. I’m willing to wager all that I have that the candor beneath your reality actually affably approaches the distinct duality of eternity itself. A divine dichotomy, hinging on the improbably true fact that all things that exist do so due to your presence. Make me one with you. Give thought to my conscience with adept incessance. Allow me to feel of your essence. Make me infinite. Innate senescence.