When I was younger, I dreamed of giants,
overly grandiose thoughts, beliefs,
impetuous desires, falsehoods, contradictions.
Now that I have aged, none of those
quaking trees of life remain, only
fallen timbers, a mountain of antiquated bones.
No stench of the decay lingers,
there is only a sense of stale stagnant air,
dried husks litter the path, detritus of the past.
Did I slaughter them, I the giant killer,
or did time become the immortal villain.
Cronus wielding a scythe of minutiae.
They become unnoticed, small things, until they
culminate in a shower of tiny arrows, piercing
the flesh, reaching into a once ambitious soul,
The trivializing of being, a fusillade,
pointed disappointments and failures,
missed chances and opportunities.
Count not the past it is dead , buried,
nor the possibility of tomorrow, count
the day, the only truth is its brief reality.
©2021 Donald Harbour