The Burning Light of the Clock
Jamari Weaver
Time, my old friend turned foe,
Once a blank canvas I was free to paint my memories on,
Now sand slipping through my fingers,
When youth clouded my senses,
The sprint towards the glowing light of an illuminated future started a fire,
Flames burned me with ambition and passion,
Leaving me with the scars of who I was,
View clears with age,
Lights become flashy advertisements hiding behind a unspoken cruel truth,
Then comes the turn around,
Bombarded with emotion in an unconscious moment of reflection,
The realization the run has been in the wrong direction your whole life,
Fire now ash,
Memories become priceless,
Forgotten thoughts a sudden haven for rapture,
What was blurs,
The truths I once knew become unclear,
You may attempt back to the ignorant paradise of the past ,
But the burden of your knowledge replaces the once bliss of naivety,
My essence withers with the exit of those play filled park days,
The tune of my existence,
Once a new classical piece of slow progression,
Now an aged chaos of wrong notes and stressed keys,
Reality drowns me as I attempt to reach the glimmering shine of a future of enjoyment not
survival,
I can feel the invisible war,
The fantasy of youth,
The opening of my eyes,
The two sides of my soul sparring for what?,
A final decision?
A black and white feeling?
An escape from the suffocation at the hands of society?
Maybe to stop the generational repetition,
“ Enjoy your youth while you can,”
Pressure from the words,
I am filled with rage for the ignorance exerted by a simple line,
Of the audacity of those who forgot the war,
But in the end it’s just time and me,
The never-ending battle with my subconscious soldiers of emotion.
Is time to be enjoyed?
To be feared?
To be angered by?
To be reminisced?
I know not the answer,
I would rather bask in time’s incomprehension than fear the inevitable